


nectar of the gods (and witches too)

by spacebuck



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes is not okay, Explicit Consent, M/M, Minor Angst, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-WS Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Rimming, Steve Rogers Is Not Okay, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Therapy, Unsafe Sex, Veteran!Bucky, Veteran!Steve, bottom!Steve, happy/hopeful ending, i promise it ends well but they have internalised shit to work through before they get there, witch!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7803361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebuck/pseuds/spacebuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the man reaches for his drink, Steve can’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the brief splashes of colour at the man's wrists. They’re gorgeous, swirls of colour and sharp lines disappearing under fabric, and Steve's fingers itch to draw them.<br/>The man clears his throat, and Steve's head jerks up, flushing as the man raises an eyebrow at him. He looks down pointedly, and Steve follows his gaze, to where his hand is still firmly wrapped around the cup. "Oh, uh, sorry," Steve mumbles, quickly pulling his hand back, and the man - Bucky, according to the order ticket - grins.</p><p>"If you're lucky I'll show them to you properly sometime," Bucky says easily, and Steve melts a little at the deep rumble of his voice. He blinks again, goes to respond, but Bucky’s turning, walking away with a sway in his step and a wink thrown over his shoulder.</p><p>Yeah. Fuck.</p><p>Steve is <em>gone</em>.</p><p>--</p><p>Or: the one where Steve owns a coffee shop, Bucky's a greenwitch, and neither of them are okay, but they're trying to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nectar of the gods (and witches too)

**Author's Note:**

> oooh boy where to start.
> 
> this is for the stucky big bang, run by thestuckylibrary on tumblr, and this is my first bang. i'm super excited to have been working with some amazing artists, [@monochrome-michaelis](http://monochrome-michaelis.tumblr.com) (art [ here](http://monochrome-michaelis.tumblr.com/post/149262618226/hey-guys-its-finally-done-i-honestly-did-not)), [@inediblesushi](http://inediblesushi.tumblr.com) (art embedded in the end notes if i can remember how to do it) and [@beardysteve](http://beardysteve.tumblr.com) (art [here](http://beardysteve.tumblr.com/post/149680506108/his-hands-end-up-on-buckys-hips-fingers-tight-in))!
> 
> i've also been absolutely spoiled by a bunch of lovely lovely friends who have made "unofficial art" for this fic, all of which are linked in the end notes
> 
> a big big shoutout to users [@transuperman](http://transuperman.tumblr.com/) and [@itsjadesy](http://itsjadesy.tumblr.com/) for doing a sensitivity check for me, i hope that the way i've taken on your comments is what you intended!
> 
> also, shoutouts to [@sorrowingsoldier](http://sorrowingsoldier.tumblr.com/), [@slaughterme-barnes](http://slaughterme-barnes.tumblr.com/) and [@needmorefiction](http://needmorefiction.tumblr.com/) for being the most awesome cheerleaders and betas and _friends_ a person could ask for, it's bc of these guys that this thing even got finished, i'll be completely honest here.
> 
> \--
> 
> some quick notes before we get started, in case it's not completely clear and there is any confusion: 
> 
> 1\. Steve knows Nat, at the start of the fic, only through text. She stole his number out of Sam's phone, and started texting him out of the blue. He doesn't know why, she won't say why. It's probably related to the fact that Bucky moved into her spare room around that time.
> 
> 2\. Bucky and Nat don't know each other all too well. They know each other through the only briefly mentioned Clint, and when Bucky had to move, Nat offered her spare room.
> 
> 3\. Witchcraft is a super interesting thing, and is practiced by a large group of people all over the world. Bucky is a green witch, meaning he works primarily with plants, everything from herbal remedies to spells based in teas, or cooking. The main difference, from what I've been told, between botany and witchcraft, is the intent, and the idea of energy exchange. you put something into it, to get something out of it. There's more to it than that, but Bucky's bad at explaining things, and i've already written enough here, so if you have any questions, feel free to hmu on tumblr and i'll do my best to answer.

Steve drags his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily before reaching a hand out. He flips the sign in the door window to _open_ and heads back for the register. The little shop is quieter than usual, Sam’s iPod not plugged in yet, and Steve’s alone for the moment. Part of him is glad Sam is running late. It gives him time to make the smile on his face real.

 

He steps back behind the counter, runs his fingers carefully over the handles of the cups lined up across the top of the machine, and spins the small till screen towards him. Like clockwork, the little bell above the door tinkles, and an older woman walks in, hair pulled back into a perfect bun.

 

"Good morning Rhi,” he calls out to her, one finger skimming through the options on the screen as he grabs one of the takeaway cups with the other. “Your usual?”

 

He’d bought the empty street-front store not long after he’d returned to New York, and done it up with his ‘retirement bonus’, and the help of a close friend from college that was looking for a change.

 

They’d bought a decent machine, Sam had managed to sweet-talk a baker looking for nicer hours into the kitchen, they’d hired a couple of college students for the weekend shifts. The coffee had started selling itself within months.

 

They were doing well now, but Steve still liked to be behind the counter, still liked the calm that came with making the perfect cup of coffee over and over. So, even as his mind spins, as the events of _then_ replay in the back of his head, that’s what he does.

 

They have their regulars, in the morning. Rhiannon is usually the first, and he knows it’s because she’s an accountant for a law firm up the road. Then comes Jack, a consultant for a company Steve couldn’t remember the name of, looking far too cheery for seven thirty in the morning, like usual. He’s got his usual order as well, so Steve sticks a cup in the machine, switches on the hot water, before putting the English breakfast tea through the machine so Jack can pay.

 

It’s a blur of faces that morning. Eric, teacher. Janey, IT. Phil, government. Andrea, property manager. None of their orders vary from their norms, so it’s an easy morning in that regard, at least. There are others though, new faces, some almost-familiar, orders _completely_ unfamiliar, and they keep Steve on his toes, makes him wish that the next person sending the bell over the door ringing is Sam.

 

By the time Sam does make it in, holding the door open for Andrea to leave before ducking into the shop, Steve’s glad for the second screen. He’d hoped it would be one of their quieter days, but he’d resigned himself to the opposite, even though it had just gone eight thirty. He’d barely had time to wipe the coffee grind off his hands before tapping out the next order while the three orders before it drip steadily into their cups.

 

The food, _g_ _od_ the food had been a mission, running to the cabinet to grab whatever bagel or scone or slice had taken the customer’s fancy that day, running back in time to catch the milk before it overflowed, or the coffee before it ran too far. Sam takes the till immediately, sliding behind the counter with a quick apology before turning to the next person in line and giving them his trademarked Million Dollar Smile.

 

Sam’s always been fantastic with people, and it shows in the way he interacts with their customers. No matter how busy it is, he always takes a moment, while he’s writing up their orders or putting the cost through the till, to open a conversation with them. Every single person leaves the line with a smile, even if Sam’s having a bad day. This? This isn’t a bad day at all.

 

“So, what are your plans for the day?” Steve hears as he tamps down the grind for a large cappuccino, listens to the young woman’s response, and sees the smile on her face as she moves away from the till. Almost immediately, Sam’s sliding over the takeaway cup, _cappuccino/trim_ printed neatly on the side, then turning to the next person, “How’s your morning going?” falling from his lips. Steve’s almost envious of his way with the customers, but keeps his head down for the most part, stretching milk and counting off how long the current shot’s been running for instead.

 

By the time the morning rush has mostly passed, Sam’s good mood is rubbing off on Steve. His hands shake less when he’s holding the milk jug, though that could be the fact that he’s actually getting a moment to breathe. He smiles when someone picks up their coffee, sends them off with a “Thank you,” or a “Have a nice day!” Today’s no different to the others, and Steve can feel himself settling into his skin with his friend around.

 

Time passes, and they fall back into their usual routine. The click of a cup on the benchtop. The rattle of the coffee grinder. The soft whir of the steamer stretching milk until it’s smooth. It’s easy. He doesn’t look over his machine at the customers waiting, doesn’t acknowledge them much until he’s handing cups off, but he’s polite, and they’re not here for his small talk anyway. Steve prefers the machine, like Sam prefers the till, and the customers that go with it. It works for them.

 

Steve drags his eyes to the clock as the line runs low, realises he’s overdue for a break. As soon as he hands off the last drink – trim flat white, no sugar, double cup – he hip-checks Sam lightly, then wipes his hands futilely on a coffee-stained rag. “I’m taking my ten, don’t break my machine,” he says with a grin, and Sam checks him back, shoos him away.

 

“ _Your_ machine now Rogers?” He calls, and Steve gives him a sloppy salute. Two fingers, touch above the eyebrow and out. It’d taken him a while to be able to do it jokingly. Sam just pulls the finger back, then says “Grab a muffin from the cabinet on your way out, my treat. You’re looking pale.”

 

Steve takes one, knowing Sam would chase him and cram it in his mouth if he didn’t. It’s happened before. He heads out back, through the kitchen to the back office, looking to get off his feet for a few minutes after the rush of the morning hours. He fills his water bottle on his way, takes a long drink, tops it back up, then keeps walking with a wave of acknowledgement to Nick. He drops onto a stool in the office and pulls off a hunk of the muffin, crams it in his mouth as he realises how hungry he actually is.

 

All too quickly his ten minutes are up, and he’s pushing to his feet again, brushing himself off and heading back out into the main shop. Immediately there’s a cup in his hand, the familiar scrawl of _flat white soy +1 sugar_ dragging him back into the grind of it.

 

It quietens down around two, and Sam hands him a cup before heading for on his lunch.

 

It’s still quiet as he bangs the old grind out, the whirr of the grinder almost cutting through the air. He doesn’t look up, cleans out the extra baskets as coffee drips steadily into a cup before he gets the milk stretching. There’s no one else in the line, so when he pours the milk into the ceramic cup he’s careful, wrist flicking gently as he sketches out a simple fern. He grabs the saucer, sets it down on the pass, clicks the cup into place, and spins the handle towards the rest of the shop, stops the turn carefully. He glances up, pauses, then blinks dumbly as he gets a good look at the customer.

 

He’s gorgeous, stunning in the most literal sense. Steve’s eyes drift over the sharp edge of his jaw, up to amused blue eyes, then back down over lips twisted into a smirk, to his hands.

 

When the man reaches for his drink, Steve can’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the brief splashes of colour at the man's wrists. They’re gorgeous, swirls of colour and sharp lines disappearing under fabric, and Steve's fingers itch to draw them.

 

The man clears his throat, and Steve's head jerks up, flushing as the man raises an eyebrow at him. He looks down pointedly, and Steve follows his gaze, to where his hand is still firmly wrapped around the cup. "Oh, uh, sorry," Steve mumbles, quickly pulling his hand back, and the man - Bucky, according to the order ticket - grins.

 

"If you're lucky I'll show them to you properly sometime," Bucky says easily, and Steve melts a little at the deep rumble of his voice. He blinks again, goes to respond, but Bucky’s turning, walking away with a sway in his step and a wink thrown over his shoulder.

 

Yeah. Fuck.

 

Steve is _gone_.

 

Steve ducks his head, grabbing the cloth under the bench and starting to wipe down the counters to avoid looking over at the man. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bucky take a seat by the storefront, and Steve scrubs at a spot on the counter a little more vigorously than he would have otherwise. He rearranges all of the cups across the top of his machine, rubs at a burnished spot on the chrome panelling. Restacks the latte cups. Washes out the milk jugs again. Keeps his hands busy.

 

All too soon there’s nothing left to do behind the counter, and no one else has come in to order. Wiping his hands on the short black apron covering his thighs, Steve emerges from behind the counter. There are a few tables with empty cups and spoons on them, so he collects them. Carefully, he stacks them and dumps all the spoons in the top cup before taking them back to the kitchen. Every time he passes Bucky he’s dropping his head, turning away slightly, avoiding looking at him at all in an attempt to hide the fact that he wants to look all too much.

 

Once, when he walks past, four mugs balanced precariously on saucers, Steve thinks he hears a snort, but when he glances over - _play it cool Steve play it cool_ – the man is staring at his phone, typing with his right hand, small smirk on his face.

 

Steve swallows, looks down. Nearly trips over his own feet as he takes the dishes behind the counter again. Nobody in the shop notices, not even the still smirking Bucky.

 

He stacks the dishes in the racks, ready to be washed, and by the time he gets back out to the main floor Sam’s back from his break, grinning like a loon. Steve’s not sure how he knows, and the first thing Sam says is “Find something you like?” and Steve scowls in response, not bothering to answer.

 

He’s so intent on ignoring his friend that when he looks up from the coffee machine, Bucky’s gone. Steve tries not to feel upset about that.

 

 

 

Steve’s walking home that night, hands tucked in his pockets, hat tipped low over his face, when he gets a text. He ignores it, knowing it’s just Sam, but when his phone buzzes against his thigh again, and again, he sighs. Fishing the device out of his jeans is almost more effort than it’s worth, but eventually he’s unlocking his phone, and almost regretting it.

 

**_Sam:_ ** _Nat and Clint say they know Bucky_

**_Sam:_ ** _The coffee guy_

**_Sam:_ ** _The one you were trying not to stare at the whole time he was there_

**_Sam:_ ** _Didn’t take you for the sort to pine away without saying anything_

**_Sam:_ ** _Actually I do take you for the sort which is why I got his number from Nat_

 

Steve frowns at the last message, responding before he can think better of it.

 

**_Steve:_ ** _No, Sam._

 

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, his coat pocket this time, and ignores it until he gets home. It keeps going off though, almost non-stop as he climbs the stairs of his building, keeps buzzing until he reaches his doorstep, and he checks the lock screen before he goes for his keys. _17 New Messages_ his phone blinks at him, with Sam’s name, and Nat’s, appearing underneath. He sighs, swaps his phone for his keys, and unlocks his front door. He drops his bag in the doorway, doesn’t bother with the lights as he moves through his apartment. Dumping his phone on the counter, Steve glares at it for a moment before opening the fridge, staring blankly into it before closing the door again. He’s never been good at the whole silent treatment thing.

 

 _C’mon man you know I didn’t mean it like that we both know you don’t got game_ was the first text from Sam, and Steve rolls his eyes. He skims the rest of the messages, most of them versions of _Steve come on_ , until he reaches the end, which is just a sad face. He backs out of that conversation, checks Nat’s message.

 

**_Natasha:_ ** _Do you want his number or not?_

 

Steve doesn’t want to respond, but he knows better than to leave Nat hanging. Sam he could get away with in most circumstances. Not Nat.

 

They’d never met face to face, Nat a friend of a friend of Sam’s, but he knew enough about her from Sam’s stories to be more than a little scared of her. The fact that she got his number out of Sam’s phone once without Sam noticing tells Steve plenty about the woman.

 

 ** _Steve:_** _If I’m getting his number, I’m going to ask for it myself_.

 

Dropping his phone on the bench again, he checks the time, sighing softly. His friends mean well, they really do, but Nat doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Sam _might_ back off, maybe, but once Nat got her teeth in, she wasn’t letting go.

 

 _If it takes you more than a couple of weeks I’m giving him your number_ is the somewhat-foreboding response.

 

 _Nat_ is his only reply, not even wanting to get into that argument before he’d had a chance to eat something.

 

**_Natasha:_ ** _:)_

 

If she’s resorting to smileys, Steve realises dimly, she’s not planning on even giving him those two weeks.

 

 

 

Bucky comes in the next week, to the day.

 

Not that Steve is keeping an eye out for him or anything, he tells himself, but when Bucky comes to the counter to order, Steve gives him a smile over his machine, and takes the order ticket from Sam without a witty comment.

 

Sam gives him a Look, but Steve ignores it, keeping his eyes down on his machine and refusing to acknowledge the elbow in his ribs, or the knowing grin on Sam’s face. He sends out the next two take-out drinks at a normal pace, to not seem too desperate. Then he makes Bucky’s drink, which was different to the day before.

 

As he sets the saucer out on the pass, he feels something shift, sees something slide off the edge of the hardwood. Steve leans forward, as quickly as anything, and catches the sugar packets between his fingers. The wood digs into his armpit, and he’s lucky they didn’t fall far, his elbow caught on the far corner of the pass. It never seems big, until he has to reach over it like now. He glances up, to make sure he didn’t knock anything else over, and his nose brushes something warm and smooth, covering a rather broad chest. Steve breathes in, sharp and shocked, and catches a whiff of old leather, and what could only be described as flowers.

 

“You alright there?” Bucky’s voice is amused, and there’s a steadying hand on his shoulder.

 

Shoving himself back to his feet fully, Steve straightens up, holds up his hand, the sugar packets firmly between them. “Sorry, I uh, knocked these off the counter. If they hit the floor we’d never find them again.” That sounded sufficiently un-creepy, Steve decides, and he drops the sugar back on the pass. He sets the cup out, turns the handle to face Bucky, and actually remembers to let go this time. Smooth.

 

Of course then he completely ruins it by asking “Sorry but, uh, you smell really…”

 

“Bad?” Bucky cuts in, looking amused, and Steve could feel the beginnings of a blush.

 

“Good, actually,” Steve finishes, scratching the back of his neck as Bucky picks up the sugar packets, tears them open and dumps them in his coffee, one after the other. “What is it?”

 

Steve is absolutely unprepared for the response, which is Bucky flashing him a wicked grin, pausing midway through pouring out his third – or was it fourth? – sugar to say, “Naked Lady.”

 

Steve chokes. Not his smoothest moment, if he’s honest with himself. Which he sometimes is. After he stops coughing, part of him thankful that there was no one else in line, he looks back at Bucky, eyes wide. “I’m sorry?”

 

“It’s a flower,” Bucky says with a grin, having finished prepping his drink while Steve was trying not to die, and he lifts the cup to his lips. Steve looks down, unwilling to admit that he’d been looking at Bucky’s lips. Again. “It’s got a bad reputation-“

 

“For what, killing people from shock?” Steve cuts in, and Bucky laughs. It’s a nice laugh, Steve notes absently, one that makes him smile just by hearing it.

 

“For its other name,” Bucky corrects, still looking amused. “It shares its other name with a poisonous plant, so it’s a choice between people thinking I’m poisoning them, or getting to say ‘naked lady’ out loud. Not a difficult choice.”

 

Steve snorts at that, but then Sam’s saying his name, and there’s a take-out cup being waved at him, so he gives Bucky an apologetic smile, and takes the cup. Bucky doesn’t say a word, just lifts his cup in answer, and takes it to a spare table. Steve tries not to watch him go as he stretches milk for the hot chocolate someone’s ordered, but he fails miserably, a small, intricate design on the back of Bucky’s neck catching his eye.

 

His lower head takes over for a moment and he wonders what that spot would taste like, salt and sweat and Bucky all wrapped up into something Steve knows he could get addicted to, all too quickly.

 

Then he yelps, milk splashing out of the jug and over his hands, and the apron he wears just for this reason. He curses under his breath as Sam cracks up beside him, not even sparing the other man a glare as he pulls the jug away. There’s still enough in there to make the drink, thankfully, so he wipes his hands down, cursing internally all the while, before pouring the milk into the cup and sliding it over the pass.

 

Then he’s back to wiping at his apron with the cloth as Sam does absolutely nothing to help.

 

As soon as the amused looking woman is out of earshot, Sam’s leaning over, wiping his finger through the froth on the bench before wiping it off on Steve’s apron. “Missed a spot,” he teases, and Steve scowls harder, wiping the bench down with a bit more force than usual. It’s all teasing, he knows it, and he’s not truly mad with Sam, he’s mad at himself if anything. At least Bucky hadn’t seen his absolute screw up, Steve tells himself.

 

 

 

Steve doesn’t notice Bucky’s come into the café until the other man speaks, making him jump. He only just avoids spilling the milk he’s pouring, and growls under his breath at himself. “You look like shit,” Bucky comments, waiting for his drink – _flat white, hazelnut shot, extra cream_ – and playing with his phone. Steve blinks dumbly, hands pausing as he caps a takeaway latte.

 

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Steve retorts, and he can hear how rough his voice is. He knows he’s behaving like an ass, he knows exactly how bad he looks at the moment. It’s been a few weeks since Bucky’s last visit, and part of Steve had wondered if the man had grown bored, or just moved on.

 

“Seriously,” Bucky continues, leaning on the pass, mouth turned down a little. “You alright?”

 

“Yeah, I’m-” Steve isn’t sure why, but suddenly he _wants_ to tell the truth. Just once. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he finishes, and gives a little shrug. Sam’s staring at him incredulously, looking between him and Bucky before mumbling something under his breath. Steve only catches _Typical_ and _–through his dick-_ so he stops listening. Bucky looks a little surprised that Steve had answered as well.

 

“Bad dreams?” Bucky looks like he’s scrabbling for a proper response, Steve’s honestly tripping him up.

 

“You could say that.”

 

Bucky gets this look in his eye, like he’s weighing Steve up, before saying “How long have you been out?”

 

It’s Steve’s turn to stumble, hands slipping on the lid of the takeaway cup. “Um.” He responds intelligently, and Bucky snorts, despite the serious tone of the conversation.

 

“Thirteen months,” Bucky says, pointing to himself, before pointing at Steve. “How long?”

 

Bucky’s admission, subtle as it is, unlocks Steve’s throat, the need in him to return Bucky’s trust forcing the words out. “Three years.” He glances up after a beat of silence, to find Bucky looking at him. There’s no trace of pity in his eyes, instead, something considering. He doesn’t push, so Steve speaks again, almost wanting to defend himself. Excuse the fact that he’s still like this, after so long.

 

“It’s usually fine. Manageable. It’s just a bad week.” He turns, calls out the order he’d finally managed to cap, sets it on the pass before starting on Bucky’s drink.

 

“I get that,” Bucky responds, then changes the subject, asking about the band playing over the stereo.

 

When Steve finishes making Bucky’s coffee, the other man takes it with another one of his considering looks, and leaves with a small smile as Steve gets caught up in making drinks for a group of schoolgirls.

 

 

 

Steve’s struck silent as Bucky comes in a few days later, looking like he’s going out for a night on the town rather than picking up coffee. His shirt is nearly sheer, and Steve can see the faint lines of what are probably more tattoos across part of his chest, down to his hip. His gaze flicks up, over the leather jacket draped carelessly over Bucky’s shoulders, back down to the gloved hands, the jeans that look like they’re painted on.

 

Bucky gets closer, so Steve yanks his gaze up to his smirking lips, up again to his amused eyes. Bucky skips the line, comes straight up to the coffee machine, and Steve steels himself for a reprimand. Instead-

 

“I got you a present.”

 

“What?” Steve responds, blinking, and Bucky snorts, places the small box in his hands, that Steve had completely overlooked, on the pass.

 

“I got you. A present.” Bucky repeats a little slower, and Steve’s hindbrain _really_ wants to ask whether Bucky’s his present, and whether he can unwrap him immediately.

 

Bucky, as if guessing where Steve’s mind had gone, nudged the box a little further towards Steve.

 

“Why?” The question tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Bucky looks exasperated for a moment, before amusement takes over.

 

“Because I wanted to.”

 

Finally, Steve gets his hands to work, but Bucky shakes his head slightly as Steve reaches for the box. Steve freezes, irrational fear telling him Bucky hadn’t meant it, but Bucky just laughs quietly, and says, “Finish your orders first.”

 

Glad someone’s brain is working properly, Steve does as he’s told, checks the cup that’s under the machine, before starting to stretch milk. There are only three order tickets, and one’s a green tea that Sam’s already sorting out, so Steve glances over at Bucky, smiles a little. Bucky rolls his eyes, mouths _work_ at him, and moves to the side, out of the way of actual paying customers. Curiosity has him looking at the box, inconspicuously sitting on the hardwood, every few seconds, but he gets the two coffees sent off, and Bucky comes back over, leans against the counter with a grin in place.

 

He’s lucky that no one else has come in, but it’s the lull between the morning rush and the lunch hour, so the four groups in the shop actually count as busy for them. At Bucky’s little nod, he reaches for the box, feels Sam come and hover by his shoulder.

 

“What’s in the box?” Sam asks, and Steve elbows him lightly.

 

“I know as much as you do, Samuel,” He responds, and Sam just laughs.

 

“Hurry up then.”

 

Bucky looks smug, leaning slightly against the counter as he watches the two squabble, before tapping his fingers against the box. There’s a glint of silver at his wrist, catching Steve’s eye, but Bucky pulls his hand back before Steve can see any more. He looks up, and Bucky’s expression is relaxed, but guarded. Best not to ask then.

 

Steve tugs the box closer, and examines it. There’s no fastening holding the lid down, so it comes off easy in his hands. There’s a scrap of tissue paper on top, and Steve looks up at Bucky in amusement. The man just shrugs a little, and Sam pokes his side, so he keeps going.

 

He tugs the tissue paper away, and pulls out the tall jar, looking at it curiously. The lid just pulls off when he gives it a tug, and if a smell could be called gentle, that’s what he’d think of what he smells. At Bucky’s small nod, Steve lifts the jar to his nose, inhales deeply. Lets it out on a hum.

 

“You weren’t sleeping well, you said.” Bucky says by way of explanation.

 

“What is it?” Steve asks, meaning the scent. Instead, Bucky just gives him a droll look.

 

“A candle, dumbass.” He deadpans, but breaks into a smile when Steve pouts. “Lavender and vanilla bean. Burn it for a few hours before you go to bed, you’ll fall right to sleep.”

 

Sam looked sceptical for a moment, until Steve shoved the jar under his nose. “Okay that smells good,” echoes slightly as Sam doesn’t move his face away, and Bucky grins wider. “Now are you going to order?”

 

Bucky steps back slightly, obviously switching gears, and Steve smiles at him, mouths _thank you_ as Bucky follows Sam back to the register.

 

 

 

“Where did you get that candle?” Steve asks, offhand, the next time Bucky shows his face. It’s been nearly a week, and part of Steve had been getting worried because the other man hadn’t shown.

 

“Did it help?” Bucky deflects, and he’s looking a little tired, dark marks heavy around his eyes. Steve isn’t sure if that’s just the remnants of eyeliner though. It’s possible.

 

“Yeah, it did,” Steve answers truthfully, smiling. “I almost don’t want to use it, just in case I _need_ it at some point.”

 

Bucky gives him a considering look, before a smile touches the corners of his mouth. “I’ll make you another one to save,” He says, and Steve blinks.

 

“Make?”

 

“Yeah, I made it,” Bucky confirms, looking more than a little smug, and Steve gapes at him. “I get bored,” he says with a shrug. When Steve doesn’t respond, still gobsmacked, Bucky’s face hardens a little, just at the corners of his eyes. “What-” He starts, but Steve cuts him off, finally finding his voice.

 

“No!” He says all too quickly, and Bucky stops, stares at him. “No,” he tries again, a little more moderated. “I just. I’ve tried a few different things that were supposed to-” He swallows, looks down. “-Help. They didn’t. Yours? Did. First and second and third time, even after I should have been getting used to the effect..” Steve shrugs slightly, chances a glance up at Bucky, gives a little smile when he sees the pleased expression dawning over Bucky’s face.

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, decisively. “I’ll bring you more. Tell me if they stop working.” Then he’s turning to Sam, placing his order. It’s to go, but Steve can’t hide the smile on his face, as much as he tries to hide it.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s staring at Bucky’s ass as he leaves until Sam hip checks him, laughing as he says “You got it bad, man.”

 

 

 

Bucky’s next visit, a few days later, is in the late afternoon. He’s missed the afternoon rush, though there are still a few teenagers sprawled on the couches, and there’s no one in line as Bucky approaches. He’s grinning something fierce, and Steve’s almost scared to ask what’s got that expression on his face. He’d never gotten anywhere by listening to his sense of self preservation.

 

Before he can open his mouth, Sam’s already speaking, calling out “JB, my man!” and slapping palms with Bucky. Steve blinks a little in shock, then ducks his chin, tops a cappuccino with cinnamon, lids it, then slides it over the pass. He doesn’t even need to call out the full order, it gets scooped up by a middle-aged regular, perfectly manicured nails digging lightly into the takeaway cup.

 

“Thanks dear,” Marta says with a smile, and Steve returns it, before glancing over to the conversation he’s been trying, and mostly succeeding, in blocking out.

 

“So, you’ll come?” Bucky’s saying, grin still in place, and Sam turns to Steve.

 

“Did you catch any of that?” He’s laughing at Steve, but Steve really can’t say he minds. This time at least, it’s warranted.

 

“Nope.”

 

“JB’s having a housewarming, and he wants us to go. Well, he wants you to go, Nat’s already invited me.” Sam explains, leaning against the counter.

 

“Next weekend,” Bucky confirms, and Steve opens his mouth, words hanging between them for a moment before his brain restarts.

 

“Wait, Nat’s inviting people? How does that work?”

 

“Have you ever seen someone tell her she can’t do something?” Sam responds, and yeah, that’s a good point.

 

“It’s technically her house,” Bucky explains after a moment, smile in place. Before Steve’s heart can sink – stupid, he’s not worth Bucky’s time, of course he’s already seeing someone – Bucky’s continuing. “I’m using one of her spare rooms until I can find something for myself. I was basically living on her couch anyway.”

 

“So it’s more of a pre-housewarming? Or more of an ‘I’ve finally got a real bed to sleep in’ sort of thing?” Steve asks, aiming for teasing. He mostly makes it.

 

Bucky takes it well, thankfully, snorts and shrugs and responds “The second one. Probably.”

 

Before Bucky can take back the invitation, before he can _regret_ the offer, Steve throws in, “Sure, I’m in.”

 

“I’ll text you the details then,” Bucky says, little smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. He holds up his phone, lets it slide across his hand towards Steve, catching it against his fingers. Steve blushes, he knows he does, can feel the heat in his cheeks, but he nods, takes the phone. It’s unlocked, open to a contact page, and Steve fills it out.

 

He just enters _Steve_ as the name, types out his number, his save. As soon as he hands it back, Bucky’s fiddling with something, and Steve’s phone, in his back pocket, buzzes slightly. “And now you have mine,” Bucky comments, grins, before turning to Sam and actually ordering a drink.

 

It doesn’t take long for Steve to make it, and he’s so focused on _not_ looking at Bucky that he fails to realise that the other man has moved to one of the nearby tables. He glances up with a smile, ready to hand off the cup, and stumbles at the woman’s face in front of him. She smiles back, but the glint in her eye is almost _too_ friendly.

 

“Sorry, I- uh…” Steve stammers, before stepping away from the coffee machine. “Excuse me.” He grabs one of the saucers from the pile, hooks a spoon under his thumb, and steps out from behind the counter. Ignoring the fact that he doesn’t _ever_ do this, Steve takes Bucky’s drink to him, setting it on the short table Bucky’s claimed.

 

“You ran away quick,” He says, once his tongue feels like it fits properly in his mouth. Bucky’s smile, slow like honey as it spreads across his face, doesn’t help any.

 

“Had to, to get a table,” Bucky responds, before glancing over his shoulder, towards the woman standing by the machine. Steve’s eyes trace over Bucky’s profile before following his gaze. The woman is staring back, and Steve quickly looks back at the table. “So did you.”

 

“Oh, god,” Steve whines, pitched low so it didn’t carry. “It’s always either me or Sam she’s eyeing up. It’d almost be flattering, if she didn’t look old enough to be my mother.”

 

Bucky laughed, warm and soft, before leaning forward, catching Steve’s wrist. “When’s your break?” He asked, fingers sliding down to tease the handle of the cup from Steve’s unresponsive fingers.

 

“I… um. I can take it whenever,” Steve manages, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. He’s looking at the press of gloved fingers against his wrist, wonders how those fingers would feel against his skin without that thin barrier.

 

“Come see me when you do?” Bucky requests, smiling like he _knows_. Steve panics a little inside, but Bucky doesn’t call him out for it, instead saying “I’ve got something for you.”

 

It’s only been a couple of weeks since the first time, but every few visits Bucky’s said those words. The candle, a backup for it. A woven braid of yarn tied around Steve’s ankle. A little shield keyring. Bruise cream after an offhand complaint. Little things, friendly things. It’s almost enough to drive Steve mad, because he can’t work out _why_.

 

“Buck-”

 

 

“Steve” Bucky sing-songs in reply, and _fuck_ that shouldn’t be so attractive. Steve pouts, Bucky smiles. Steve caves. He always does when it comes to Bucky, he’s finding.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” Steve says, pulling away from Bucky’s table reluctantly. There are a few more people waiting, and Steve fast walks back to the counter, apologising with a polite smile as he gets back to work.

 

The ten minutes until things clear up seem like an hour, until he tucks his apron over his side of the counter. He grabs a couple of pastries out of the cabinet, tucks a ten into the till, and rolls his eyes at Sam’s unspoken teasing. When he drops into the seat across from Bucky, he’s greeted with a warm smile, and a raised eyebrow.

 

“What have you got there?” Bucky murmurs, voice pitched low. Intimate. Steve blushes. Bucky grins.

 

“I was hungry,” Steve says after a moment. “Seemed rude to eat in front of you.” He sets the little plates down, pushes one towards Bucky. “Berry and chocolate brownie. One of our best sellers,” Steve says, before cutting a piece off with his fork and shoving it in his mouth to shut himself up.

 

Bucky’s grin softened slightly, and he murmured, “Thank you,” Before trying some, not hesitating for a second. “This is good,” He mumbled out around his mouthful, but it came out as more of a crumb-filled mumble that had a few vowels thrown in.

 

There’s a moment of silence as they both eat, before Bucky seems to remember why he asked Steve to come back. “Oh, hey.” He puts his fork down, turns slightly to pull his bag closer. It takes him a moment to find what he needs to, and Steve manages to finish his brownie in that short time. All the better to stop him from staring at Bucky’s profile.

 

Bucky makes a little _ha_ noise, and lets his bag swing back to the side of his chair. There’s a velvet jewellery bag in his hand, and he holds it out, hanging between his fingers. “Here,” He says with a smile.

 

Steve takes it, frowning slightly. Before he can protest what looks like the spending of money, Bucky shrugs slightly. “It’s not expensive, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

 

Steve snorts, but he can feel himself blushing at that, and Bucky tips forward a little, leaning his elbows on the table. “What’s the matter Stevie, something you wanna tell me?” He asks, all innocent.

 

Steve grumbles under his breath, snatching the little bag out of Bucky’s hands. “Shut up.”

 

“Defending yourself well there,” Bucky snorts, grinning wide.

 

“Shut _up_.” Steve ducks his head, pulling open the bag and shaking the contents into his hand. It’s a little charm, small enough to fit on the woven strap sitting around Steve’s ankle. The metal curves almost delicately, with no sharp angles to it.  He rubs his thumb over the charm, warming it, and Bucky smiles slightly.

 

“For protection,” Bucky says with a little smile, looking almost nervous.

 

“Did you make this?” Steve asks, quiet. Bucky nodded a little, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Yeah. Do you like it?” Bucky sounds almost hesitant, for the first time since this strange gift giving thing started. Steve looks at him for a moment, but as soon as he sees the nervousness there, he nods without question.

 

“It’s gorgeous, Buck. How could I not?” He responds, and feels a rush of warmth as Bucky’s face brightens back up.

 

“Okay,” He says, and meets Steve’s gaze. They grin at each other for a long moment, until he repeats, “Okay,” nodding just a little. It bumps Steve out of his mind, pulls him out of the spiralling thoughts of _what if_ , and he glances at the old analogue clock hanging on one wall.

 

“Shit, I have to…” He waves a hand to the counter, that’s blessedly still empty, and Sam, standing behind it playing with his phone.

 

“Break time over?” Bucky asks, even though he knows the answer. Steve nods a little.

 

“Yeah, gotta go earn my keep.”

 

“You literally own the place,” Bucky snorts, and Steve flushes deep and dark. Before Steve can ask, Bucky shrugs, smile curling his lips. “Sam told me,” He says, and lifts a hand to run his fingers through his hair. Steve’s fingers ache to do just the same. Steve mentally berates them for being ridiculous.

 

“Gotta set a good example?” He tries again, and Bucky laughs, so he decides it’s good enough.

 

“For Sam?” is the teasing response.

 

“He’s the worst of them all,” Steve says, teasing right back before pushing to his feet. He puts the charm back in its little bag, promising himself to thread it onto the strap it went with after his shift, then grabbed their empty plates.

 

“Catch you later then?” Bucky asks, and it’s as Steve’s agreeing that he realises that Bucky’s never said that before. Never suggested that their meetings were anything more than accidents caused by good coffee. He returns to his machine mulling this over, and huffs under his breath as Sam gives him a pointed look.

 

Not that he watches Bucky, but the other man doesn’t move for another hour or so, before getting up, sending a wave and a smile his way before leaving the shop, bag slung low over his shoulder.

 

Sam nudges him with an elbow as soon as Bucky’s out of sight, the little tinkle of the door sounding joyously final. “He’s totally into you.”

 

Steve splutters, elbows Sam back, tries to come up with a response that doesn’t reveal how into Bucky _he_ is. “He’s just being nice.”

 

“It’s been a month and a half and he’s brought you seven different gifts, and come in nearly every day. And while he’s here he’s always looking at you. That boy is _gone_ for you Steve.”

 

Steve just shakes his head in response. Bucky’s just being nice, just being friendly. There’s no point in reading into it further, because there’s nothing there to read. Even if he wants there to be.

 

 

 

Bucky comes back later that afternoon, just as Sam’s finishing up his shift. He smiles as he comes in the door, warm as the little bell’s ring, and Sam immediately catches his attention, heading straight for him. Steve watches out of the corner of his eye as he finishes off a latte, hands it over with a warm smile. Right before he can get worried, Sam claps Bucky over one shoulder, ignoring the other man’s twitch at the sudden contact, and leaves, bell tinkling on his way out. Steve’s never really paid much attention to the bell. Now it seems like it’s laughing at him.

 

Bucky approaches the counter, an amused smile on his face, eyes contemplative. “I hope he wasn’t giving you a hard time,” Steve says as soon as he’s close enough, nodding towards the door, after his friend.

 

“Nah, just some advice,” Bucky says slowly, like he’s still processing. He makes his order, his usual Thursday extra shot cappuccino, leans against the counter as Steve rings him up. When Bucky doesn’t move, Steve glances back up at him, his rote _is there anything else?_ on the tip of his tongue. Bucky cuts him off before he can start with a soft laugh. That little smirk is back, knowing and teasing and _god_ does Steve want to kiss it off him. He doesn’t, but he has to swallow hard, grip the edge of the counter tightly just to be sure he wasn’t going to reach out and touch.

 

“You’re kind of oblivious, aren’t you?” Bucky says all of a sudden, and Steve splutters, shocked into incoherence. He doesn’t even get out a _what_ before Bucky’s leaning forward. There’s fingers, unyielding, hooking in the straps of his apron, tugging him forward. Steve blinks, shock keeping him silent because _god this is happening_.

 

Bucky stops. There’s an inch of space between them. Steve can feel the faint stirring of air against his lips as Bucky speaks, low and insistent. “If you don’t want me to, tell me.”

 

Steve can’t speak. Not that he wants to, but he can barely breathe. So he does the only thing he can. Tilts his head, closes the distance. Hopes that he’s not making a fool of himself.

 

Bucky’s fingers tighten, pull him in closer, and the brush of lips turns into a press. Steve tips his head a little, shifting the angle, and Bucky sighs softly against his lips. There’s a flick of a tongue against his lower lip, and his breath catches, and he feels Bucky smile, honeyed and warm.

 

Steve pulls back, just enough to be able to think, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Bucky’s smile grows, and Steve can’t help it, starts to tip forward again. But a finger against his lips stops him, a hair’s breadth away from those soft, reddened lips.

 

“Dinner.” Bucky murmurs, voice soft, tone demanding. Steve’s not sure how he managed, but he did. “Tonight?”

 

It takes Steve a minute to remember whether he was busy, but after that moment he nods, the motion short enough to not displace the finger still resting against his mouth.

 

“I’ll text you?” Bucky says, and Steve nods again, still trying to make words happen. It’s a losing battle. Bucky snorts, but leans in, busses his lips over Steve’s again. Just before they can get further, someone’s clearing their throat behind Bucky. Steve jumps, but Bucky just kisses his chin and flips the bird to whoever’s behind them.

 

Luckily for Steve, it’s only Sam, who insists on butting in again by saying “See, told you. Totally into you.” Steve’s not sure who the comment’s directed at. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were the both of them.

 

He also isn’t surprised when Bucky reaches out, and pushes Sam’s face away from them with a hand on his cheek, and says “Fuck off, Wilson,” before kissing him again.

 

 

 

 

At the risk of sounding like a nervous teenager, Steve manages to work his way into, and out of, three different outfits, before Sam finally calls him back. _“You’ve got to be kidding me,”_ the other man says in lieu of a greeting.

 

“Sam,” Steve says, a faint whine in his voice. “ _Sam_. I haven’t been on a date since before-“

 

_“Iraq?”_

 

“Before I _enlisted_ , Sam.”

 

There’s a beat of silence at the other end, and Steve worries at his lip. _“So you’re telling me you haven’t been laid sinc-”_

 

“Sam!” Steve cuts him off, covering his face with a hand. “There was no time for dating, over there. Doesn’t mean I haven’t-” It was true. All he could remember of his rest time was shitty alcohol, and hazy desperate fucks. The middle of a war gave no time for slow and steady. Steve shook his head in a sharp jerk, before he could think too much further about that. It didn’t do anyone any good. “Did you pick?”

 

 _“Depends. Do you wanna get laid?”_ Steve struggles to frame his answer to that question.

 

“Yes, but I don’t want to make it seem like that’s all I want from him. Like, I’d like to not go home alone but I also want more than one date?” He’s not sure if that even made sense, but as per usual, Sam gets him.

 

_“The second one was too ‘one night stand’ then. Wear those jeans with the third shirt and the sweater I know you had to resist pairing with the pants from one. The blue one, not the other one.”_

 

“You’re a lifesaver, Sam,” Steve says sincerely, mentally matching up the clothing Sam had advised and agreeing instantly. “Really. Honestly. Truly.”

 

 _“Yeah, I get it,”_ is the laughed response, and Steve grins, pleased with himself. _“Have fun tonight. I expect all of the sordid details in the morning._ ”

 

Steve rolls his eyes, but Sam hangs up before he can respond. Steve dresses quickly, and he’s just smoothing the bottom of the sweater down when he hears a knock at the door. He grabs his phone and quickly snaps a picture of himself in the full length mirror, sending it to Sam with a handful of winking emojis, before cramming it and his wallet in the back pockets of his jeans.

 

He heads for the door before Bucky can knock again, scooping up his keys on the way, and opens the front door with an apology on his lips. The words dry up in his mouth. Bucky’s _stunning_ , leaning against the doorjamb, crooked smile on his face. Those tight, tight jeans have made a reappearance, and part of Steve wonders if Sam had a part in orchestrating that. The rest of him is probably drooling a little, if he’s honest with himself. Bucky’s top half is more sedate, dark green jacket over a grey shirt, those leather gloves still in place. Steve wants to drag him inside, and not let him out again.

 

While Steve’s looking Bucky over, Bucky’s doing the same of Steve, and as Steve’s eyes finally make it to Bucky’s face again, he can see the heat in Bucky’s gaze. “Shit,” Steve says suddenly, and Bucky laughs, low and inviting.

 

“Could say the same for you.”

 

Bucky straightens up, steps in, and he’s no less disarming up close. Steve’s hands settle instinctively at Bucky’s hips, and Bucky leans up, pressing his lips to Steve’s lightly. “Sure we have to go out? I could have you for dinner instead,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s lips, and Steve can’t help but shiver at the words, at Bucky’s tone.

 

“I was promised a date, Barnes,” Steve manages to get out, please at himself when he keeps his voice steady. “Maybe for dessert.”

 

Bucky kisses him again, fast and hard, before stepping back, catching Steve’s hand in one of his own. It’s warm, even with the glove, and solid in Steve’s own. Steve’s heart might have skipped a beat at the rub of Bucky’s thumb over his knuckles, steady and warm.

 

They go to a small restaurant nearby, one picked on a whim after Bucky had heard Steve’s interested noise as he’d seen the sign. They both stick to water, leaning forward on the table enough that when their food comes, they have to sit back, Steve apologising quickly, making Bucky grin.

 

They talk. And talk. Then talk some more. At one point, Bucky kicks one of Steve’s feet, and Steve responds in kind, and their feet end up tangled together in a hopeless pile. When they’re not eating, Bucky keeps his fingers curled in Steve’s.

 

They stay away from the heavy stuff, but explore each other. Steve learns Bucky has a sister, that doesn’t live nearby, but they speak often. Steve lets on that he’d studied history in college, and that his mother had taught him French when he was barely old enough to speak English properly. That garners an interesting reaction, Bucky’s eyebrows flying up, and he grins, leaning forward across the table. Instead of the usual _say something in French!_ or _teach me a swearword!_ Bucky says, low and quiet, “you’ll have to show me later.” It made Steve shiver, eyes dropping closed at the promise in Bucky’s voice, and when he opens them again, Bucky’s grinning, unrepentant.

 

“Tu dis que des conneries,” Steve grumbles under his breath, and Bucky grins wider.

 

“I have no idea what that means, but it’s probably true.”

 

Steve snorts, and Bucky squeezes his hand lightly, as the waiter comes back and takes their plates, and bring their bill. Bucky pushes to his feet, before swiping the ticket out of Steve’s hands, tucking a few notes into the billfold, and handing it back to the waiter.

 

Steve scowls, but the smug look on Bucky’s face has him laughing as he stands. “You’re in a rush,” Steve comments, just to see what Bucky’s going to say. He doesn’t disappoint.

 

“I’ve got dessert to look forward to.”

 

Steve shakes his head in amusement, even as he feels his face heat up, and stands, taking the offered hand and falling into step with Bucky as they leave.

 

They end up at Steve’s again, in silent agreement to not annoy Nat, and neither of them speak as Bucky follows Steve into the apartment. As soon as the door closes behind them, Steve turns, to find Bucky standing in his space. Before he can say anything, Bucky’s mouth is on his, and Steve can’t help the little noise that escapes him as he kisses Bucky back.

 

His hands end up on Bucky’s hips, fingers tight in his shirt, and Bucky’s cupping the back of his neck. Bucky’s mouth slides sideways, and he plants little kisses across Steve’s jaw, before murmuring in his ear, “I have something to show you.”

 

Steve laughs quietly, lets his hands drift down a little, and raises an eyebrow, feels the heat in his cheeks as he says “That’s what they all say.”

 

Bucky snickers and pulls his head up, then pinches the meat of Steve’s shoulder. “Seriously,” he deadpans, before kissing Steve again, like he can’t bear their lips being apart for long enough to say what he needs to. Steve can sympathise – he’d been leaning in while Bucky was still speaking.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says again as their lips part, and he places a hand on Steve’s chest, nudging him back half a step. Steve can feel the wall behind him, not quite flat against it but just close enough. Steve lifts his hands immediately, holding them up in the air between them. Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, so Steve counts it as a win, even if Bucky didn’t let him touch again.

 

“Couch?” Bucky asks, and Steve nods, willing to do anything to make the other man comfortable. Bucky steps back, turns, and Steve has to take a moment to just look as Bucky walks away from him, further into the house. Bucky glances over his shoulder, rolls his eyes, then cocks his hip, and _god_ Bucky knows how to play him, and those jeans, like a fucking piano.

 

“You have to promise not to freak out, alright?” Bucky says as he drops onto one of Steve’s beat up old couches, sprawling like he owns the place. Steve follows, sitting at the other end of the same sofa, not willing to crowd the other man while he said what he needed to.

 

The question in and of itself implied there was something to freak out over.

 

“You don’t have like a pierced dick or something?” Steve blurts out, and Bucky looks at him incredulously for a second, then starts laughing.

 

“Would there be a problem if I did?” Bucky responds after a moment of calming himself back down.

 

“Uh. No, but it would make things interesting?” Steve tries, embarrassed right down to his toes and mentally berating himself.

 

“I think things are interesting enough,” Bucky says, and pulls off his gloves.

 

Steve blinked at the hands in front of him, not sure what he was seeing. “Is that another tattoo or…?”

 

Bucky spanned his fingers wide, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Steve. “Touch it and see.” Steve shuffled closer, held out a hand, took Bucky’s left hand in his own, and gaped.

 

“That’s metal.”

 

“Custom built prosthesis,” Bucky said after a moment of Steve gaping at the hand in his own. “Miracle of engineering. It’s gone all the way up to the shoulder.” Steve’s only half paying attention to what Bucky’s saying, bringing his other hand into play and tracing the grooves in the metal. Bucky flexes his fingers, and there’s the softest sound, probably only audible because Steve’s paying close attention. The centre of his hand is made up several segments, and as Bucky curls his hand, they shift and overlap. The fingers are even more intricate, tiny bands of metal sliding into place with every twitch of Bucky’s fingers. He barely notices that Bucky didn’t say how he lost the arm in the first place.

 

Steve follows the lines of each join up to Bucky’s wrist, then taps lightly at the sleeve of his shirt, before murmuring, “It’s gorgeous, Buck.” The look on Bucky’s face says that’s not the response he was expecting. Which meant- “Anyone who thinks otherwise is full of shit.”

 

Bucky blinks slowly, just looking at Steve for a moment, before he lifts his hand out of Steve’s grip. Instead of pulling away, like Steve half expects him to, he reaches up and rests the palm of his hand against Steve’s cheek. The metal is still cool, and it sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

 

Bucky goes to pull back at that, frowning a little, but Steve catches his hand, holds it in place before tipping his head and kissing the metal palm. “Can I see the rest?” He asks softly, and Bucky’s startled into a laugh.

 

“The rest of the arm, or the _rest_ ,” he retorts, but Steve can see there’s hesitance there, hiding behind the teasing. So Steve answers as honestly as he can.

 

“Either. Both. Whatever you’ll give me,” he murmurs, before swallowing hard. He forces the next bit out as quickly as possible so he doesn’t stumble over it, knows Bucky needs something to distract him from the negative spiral he’s teetering on the edge of. “But if you wanna stay clothed that’ll throw a wrench in my plans to suck you off in my living room.”

 

It’s Bucky’s turn to stare, mouth agape, and Steve’s quite proud of himself for managing that. Then he laughs, short and sudden, real hand sliding up to mirror the left at Steve’s cheek. “You’re a fuckin wonder, you know that?” He murmurs, before pulling Steve in and kissing him. “Yeah, I want that. Clothes off.”

 

Steve settles a hand on Bucky’s knee, tugging him closer. With a soft hum, Bucky’s sliding his arms over Steve’s shoulders, pulling him closer still with hands on his back as their lips slide together.

 

Bucky’s hands are tugging, leading, so Steve follows, shifting up then across until he’s straddling Bucky’s legs. Before there’s any inkling of a thought that the move is pushing the boundaries, Bucky’s hands drop, and take a firm grip on his ass. Steve can’t help but laugh, the noise barely a puff of air between them, but Bucky pulls his head back, grins, and wiggles his fingers.

 

“Opportunist,” Steve murmurs into the space between their lips, and Bucky grins wider, spreading his fingers before giving Steve’s ass a slow, deliberate squeeze.

 

 “Absolutely,” Bucky responds, before sliding his hands up, catching the edge of Steve’s sweater. “Can I?” he murmurs, fingers flirting with the edge, and Steve shivers at every faint brush of skin, or metal, against his hips. “Not that you don’t look stunning in it,” Bucky adds, and Steve shivers at the heat in his voice. “But I think it’ll look better on the floor.”

 

“Smooth,” Steve laughs, but he pulls back enough to free his hands from Bucky’s shoulders, and he catches Bucky’s hands in his. With a little smile, he uncurls Bucky’s fingers gently, but before the other man can even think to be disappointed, he moves Bucky’s hands under his shirt as well. “Might as well get them both.”

 

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate, much to Steve’s amusement. He just starts tugging at the material, sliding it up to Steve’s armpits before Steve even has a chance to move. “Eager,” He murmurs, laughing, as he lifts his arms, but then his shirts are gone and he’s not laughing anymore.

 

Bucky’s staring at him, entranced and open and _needing_ , and then there are lips at his throat, kissing a trail down towards Steve’s chest as Bucky’s hands slide carefully up his sides. Steve’s hands flutter uselessly at Bucky’s sides before he puts one on Bucky’s shoulder, letting the other tangle hesitantly in Bucky’s hair.

 

He shivers as Bucky’s mouth wanders lower, and makes a noise closer to a squeak than anything else as Bucky outright licks along his collar bone. Bucky’s lips curve against his skin, and Steve tugs on Bucky’s hair lightly in revenge, but that goes sideways as Bucky tenses beneath him, lets out a soft noise, then whispers “Do that again.”

 

Steve does, of course he does, wanting to draw as many noises out of Bucky as he can, wanting to outright _ruin_ Bucky for anyone else. He tugs, keeps the tension there, and as Bucky’s head falls back, Steve drops his to kiss him hard and filthy.

 

“Can I take this off?” Steve asks, surprised at how rough his voice is. The fingers not in Bucky’s hair tug at the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky doesn’t answer. Not verbally at least. Instead, he grabs his own shirt and starts tugging it up, stalled by how close they are. It gives Steve enough time to loosen his grip in Bucky’s hair, and he drops his hands to Bucky’s hips to wait him out. As the fabric slides up, lines of ink are revealed to Steve, and he can’t help but stare a little as they’re uncovered. They’re abstract, probably, Steve notes in the back of his mind, dark strokes like someone’s taken a paintbrush to Bucky’s skin, circles and patterns and shapes up Bucky’s sides, curling along his ribs.

 

Bucky hesitates a moment, the shirt bunched up at his chest, so Steve leans in, kisses him soft and slow. Reassuring, he hopes. “You’re gorgeous Buck,” he mumbles against Bucky’s lips, and that seems to help Bucky make up his mind. Steve leans back, and Bucky tugs the shirt over his head, before tossing it the way of Steve’s.

 

Steve can’t help but stare, not really. He sits back a little, balanced precariously on Bucky’s knees, and presses a hand to Bucky’s stomach, sliding it up slowly. Bucky has the body of a soldier, like Steve does, wide expanses of muscle littered with trails of white, old scars that make Steve ache just looking at them. He slides his hand up further, following the soft trail of hair up Bucky’s stomach, revelling in the differences between Bucky and himself.

 

He’s not sure what he expected, when he properly looks at Bucky’s left shoulder. The connection between metal and skin is messy, but the scars are older than the arm has to be. Remnants of what took Bucky’s arm, then. The scars spread across and down Bucky’s side, fading out until those on his hip are thin, faded, almost blending in with the skin around them.

 

Steve can feel Bucky’s tension under his hands, can feel the racing pulse and the short, sharp breaths. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid, so he just leans forward, presses his lips to the mass of scars that make up Bucky’s shoulder. He feels Bucky’s fingers latch onto his hips, ignores the faint pinch of the metal joints and instead focuses on the skin in front of him.

 

He follows the lines of scars right to the edge of Bucky’s skin, until the cool bite of metal is obvious against his lips. He parts them, just enough to let his tongue slide over the scar tissue, and Bucky jerks, pulls him closer.

 

“Steve,” he murmurs, voice thin, and Steve lifts his head, smiles just a little.

 

“Buck.”

 

“Its-”

 

“It’s yours. It’s you.”

 

As it turns out, that’s all he needed to say. Bucky just stares for a moment, like he’s trying to process Steve’s response, then he smiles, just a little. Just enough.

 

“Steve,” He says again, this time on a sigh, and Steve tips his chin, kisses him lightly.

 

“Can I?” Steve asks, letting one hand trail back down Bucky’s chest, tapping lightly against a middle rib. Bucky shivers at the touch, but nods, a little jerky, and leans back as far as he can. It’s not much, he’s still basically upright on the couch, but it gets the point across, and makes Bucky laugh a little when he realises how pointless a move it was.

 

Steve makes up for it by sliding off Bucky’s lap, and onto his knees. Bucky freezes again, but Steve just keeps moving, hands dropping to Bucky’s fly and tugging at it, before hooking his fingers in the waistband.

 

“You’re gonna have to help me out here,” he murmurs, and Bucky jerks into action, lifting his hips and pushing at his pants himself. The pants have moved a bare inch when Steve realises Bucky’s not wearing underwear.

 

“Oh my god,” Steve gets out, and Bucky doesn’t reply, keeps shoving at his jeans and swearing under his breath until they hit his knees, and slide down easy. “You were hopeful.”

 

“I saw how you reacted the last time I wore them,” Bucky responds, left hand resting on Steve’s shoulder as the other hand wraps around his cock. Steve doesn’t reply for a moment, just watches the tug of Bucky’s hand with curiosity laced with want. Bucky notices, and his hand stills. “Gonna do something about it?” He says, voice soft.

 

Steve doesn’t let himself think, just leans forward, until Bucky lets go. He licks the tip of his cock, a slight flick of his tongue, and Bucky tugs on his hair, fingers tight. But that’s where Bucky stops, not demanding, just holding on. He breathes out Steve’s name, and his fingers go tight again, and Steve settles his own hand at the base of Bucky’s cock to follow the thick vein with his tongue.

 

Bucky tastes like skin and sweat, and Steve can’t help but hum as he presses his lips to the tip, slowly slides his mouth down. Bucky holds still, somehow, and Steve can feel the jump of muscles under the hand steadied on Bucky’s stomach. Steve glances up as soon as he’s got the head in his mouth, tips his head to rest the tip against the roof of his mouth, and then hums.

 

Bucky jerks like he’s been shocked, his hips twitching up as he makes a sound like he’s been punched, and his body curls in. Pleased with the result, Steve rides out Bucky’s reaction, then slides down a little more and does it again. The reaction isn’t as obvious, but it pleases Steve in the most visceral way. Here he is, on his knees with a cock in his mouth, and _he’s_ the one in control.

 

Dropping his hands to Bucky’s thighs, Steve slides his mouth down a little further, and lets himself enjoy it. The burn in his jaw, the weight on his tongue, the insistent hands on his hair as he keeps pushing himself further. Slide up, press down, lips tight and tongue sliding along Bucky’s cock with each movement of his head, each twitch of Bucky’s hips. When he finally gets where he wants to go, nose against the trail of hair down Bucky’s stomach, throat working as he fights his body’s reaction to the cock sliding deep, he hears Bucky’s “Oh _shit_ ,” voice hoarse. He fights his need to breathe for a moment more, swallowing and revelling in Bucky’s shaky moan, before pulling up.

 

Catching his breath, Steve wraps a hand around the base of Bucky’s dick and licks it, tongue dragging along the sensitive skin and making Bucky whine, then curse when he doesn’t let up. Steve can’t remember the last time he had a partner that was so vocal about their pleasure as Bucky is. His last partner had been quiet, breathy sighs and hitches of breath but nothing much more, not even when she came.

 

Bucky’s hips hitch up, and Steve drops a hand to his thigh, pushing him back down. He pulls his mouth off, grins up at Bucky, and is surprised when a hand, warmed metal, cups his cheek. “Fuck you’re good at that,” He mumbles, and Steve grins, lips against the head of his dick. “Don’t say practise,” Bucky continues, a little hoarse, as Steve opens his mouth to reply, and Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Don’t know if I can handle imagining you with someone else.”

 

Steve’s not sure how to reply to that, not sure what Bucky _means_ by that, so doesn’t bother answering, licking at the head of Bucky’s cock again, in delicate little flicks of his tongue. Bucky swears under his breath, lifts his hips up slightly, and Steve takes mercy on him, opening his mouth and letting Bucky’s cock slide in.

 

It doesn’t take long, objectively. It feels like hours, with Bucky’s cock heavy in his mouth and precome bitter on his tongue, but it’s no more than a few minutes longer before Bucky’s legs start tensing under Steve’s hands, before he starts to twist and nudge at Steve’s head. Before his near-constant noises become low moans. His hand in Steve’s hair gets more urgent, tugging firmly, and so Steve lets Bucky pull him up, replaces his mouth with a hand. He’s glad he did.

 

Bucky coming is something Steve wants to see as much as possible, he decides, as Bucky’s hips lift off the couch, and twist away. He shudders, full body, noises throttled to a near silent whimper as he simultaneously pushes his hips forward and pulls his body away, as if torn between too much and not enough. Steve feels the pulse of Bucky’s cock in his hand and strokes firmly, eyes locked on Bucky’s face as he falls apart.

 

And _g_ _od_ does Bucky fall apart, face pulled tight, mouth open and slack, eyes rolling back in his head. His right hand is tight in Steve’s hair, but his left is nothing but gentle as he holds on, grounds himself in touch as the wave of pleasure passes.

 

As Bucky settles, body dropping back onto the couch, Steve pushes himself upwards. Heedless of the come on his hand, he runs his fingers up Bucky’s stomach and leans in as soon as he’s upright, kissing Bucky slowly. It takes the other man a moment to respond, lips slack under his for a second before Bucky starts to kiss back, mouth moving lazily against Steve’s.

 

“Hi,” Steve murmurs as the kiss trails off, mouth still resting against Bucky’s. There’s a soft laugh in response, a puff of air against his lips, then Bucky’s sliding his hands down Steve’s back.

 

There’s a tug at the waistband of the pants Steve had forgotten he’d been wearing, and Bucky murmurs “Hey yourself,” in response as he wedges his fingers under the denim. “Pretty sure you scrambled my brains there,” Bucky continues, pulling Steve forward until he’s straddling Bucky’s lap, knees tucked in tight against Bucky’s hips. “But I think I can do something about that.” He lifts his hips up, just a little, and Steve gasps as his erection rubs against Bucky’s stomach through his jeans. Now that he isn’t focusing on Bucky, and making Bucky feel good, he’s overwhelmed with how much he _wants_. “That okay with you?”

 

“God, yes,” Steve manages, and Bucky grins, chases Steve’s mouth with his own. He kisses like he’s touching, slow and methodical, but with the promise of more, as his hands slide around Steve’s hips to tug at Steve’s fly. Steve’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with that, can lean up against Bucky as each tug sends a shiver down his spine, doesn’t have to worry about making his fingers work.

 

Then, Bucky’s pushing his jeans down a little, taking the briefs under them down at the same time, and then there’s a rush of relief through him as his cock escapes the tight confines of the denim. “Look at you,” Bucky murmurs, a low purr as he looks down. “God you’re gorgeous.” Before Steve can say anything, start to protest, there’s a warm hand on his cock and everything he wanted to say fizzles out into white.

 

He’s dimly aware of the movement of lips against his skin, of Bucky speaking to him in a low voice, but his attention is caught on the hand on his dick. Bucky’s hand is tight, thumb playing along the underside of the flared head, and Steve’s struggling not to thrust, struggling to let Bucky set the pace.

 

Teeth set against his shoulder make him shiver, then the drag of a tongue up his throat to his ear, and he shudders, lip caught in his teeth. He’s riding the edge of pleasure, worked up just from being on his knees for Bucky, and when Bucky rumbles “come” in his ear, he’s helpless to do anything but obey.

 

When his brain comes back online, Steve realises he’s slumped against Bucky, head resting on Bucky’s shoulder. He’s still breathing heavily, breaths catching as Bucky’s fingers walk their way up his cock, then back down. “Shit,” he gets out, a full body shiver running through him, and Bucky laughs quietly.

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bucky responds, tips his head to look at Steve. Steve’s not sure if he’s seen anything more beautiful.

 

Bucky flushes, and Steve realises he’s spoken out loud, but it’s true, so he doesn’t take it back. Steve doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to ruin the comfortable silence between them, but before he can even think of something to say, Bucky speaks. “I’m clean. Just so you know.”

 

It takes Steve a moment to work out what Bucky’s talking about, then it’s his turn to blush. Because, considering he was usually good at the whole safe sex thing, he’d seen Bucky’s cock and gone for it like a starving man. Bucky’s words stopped him from feeling too guilty.

 

“I uh. Was, last time I checked,” Steve mumbles in response, face dropping into the crook of Bucky’s neck. “I’ll get…” Bucky shrugs his shoulders slightly, bumping Steve’s head up, then down a little.

 

“S’one of the many tests they made me do when I got this,” Bucky murmurs, stroking his left hand down Steve’s spine. “Can’t remember the excuse they gave. Wasn’t expecting you to have done it anytime recently.” Steve sighs softly, lifts his head enough to kiss the underside of Bucky’s jaw.

 

“I’ll get it done,” He murmurs, before pushing himself upright. “But it’s not an invitation for more of this,” Steve waves a hand between them, before sliding ass first off Bucky’s lap and onto the couch beside him, kicking his pants off the rest of the way. “M’not a cheap date.”

 

Bucky laughs, short and sharp, as though he’s surprised at the comment. “Like taking you out is a hardship, babydoll,” he drawls, and Steve rolls his eyes. “And while sitting here butt-ass naked with you isn’t either, I’d rather not get sticky,” he continues, and Steve resigns himself to standing.

 

“Come on then, bathroom is this way.”

 

 

 

Once Bucky’s left the next day, Steve books himself in for an appointment to get tested. He’s lucky – they had a reschedule not long before, and he manages to book for the next day. He’s not worried, objectively, but subjectively he knows he’s likely to freak out a little until it’s done.

 

All in all, his logical mind was right. He goes in, answers increasingly awkward questions about his sex life, pees in a cup, gets his finger jabbed, and is sent on his way, with a _We’ll send the results to you directly and contact you if there are any issues_. There’s a heavy looking letter in his mail box a week later, confirming what he already knew. He sends a picture to Bucky, because yeah, Bucky deserves to know he’s not about to catch anything, and crams it in his medical folder, not bothering to file it properly.

 

 

 

When Bucky comes into the coffee shop a few days after their fourth date, he looks tired, but he lights up as soon as he sees Steve behind the counter. He bypasses the line, in favour of coming up to the machine, and leans over just as Steve finishes up a latte. Steve pushes the glass over to the high school student, stretches forward, and presses his lips to Bucky’s lightly.

 

“Sam thinks you’re ignoring him,” Steve says matter-of-factly, as he hears an almost disappointed noise from his side. “You didn’t even look at him.”

 

“He’s a big boy,” Bucky responds with a little smile. “He can handle it.” But he goes to the back of the line, and Steve can feel his cheeks heat at the looks he’s getting from other patrons. Nothing bad, just …. Considering. He ducks his head, hides himself behind his machine as Sam laughs at him, waving another order ticket his way.

 

When Bucky’s seated, mug in hand, and there’s a lull in customers, Sam nudges him. Steve glances up from the smudge he’s been trying to buff out of the front panel of the machine for a few minutes, and looks over at his friend. “He looks tired.” Sam says matter-of-factly, like Steve wouldn’t have noticed. “You should go cheer him up. Take your ten, I got this.”

 

Steve shoots him a grateful look, tucks his apron away, and heads for Bucky, grabbing his water bottle out from its little alcove under the counter as he goes.

 

He announces his presence with a soft “Hey,” as he approaches the table, doesn’t miss the surprised panic in Bucky’s eyes as he turns, before the other man relaxes, smiles openly. Steve’s not sure what to say about that, not sure what to think about it, so he just sits himself down in the armchair opposite, and nudges Bucky’s foot with one of his own.

 

“Bad day?” He asks eventually, and Bucky sighs, scrubs one gloved hand over his face.

 

“You could say that.”

 

“Anything I can do?” Steve asks with complete sincerity, leaning forward a little under the guise of putting his bottle on the low table between them. He doesn’t want to push Bucky, not on this. He’s had his own fair share of bad days, still gets them, when everything is too loud and too much, when he doesn’t want to get out of bed or talk to anyone. When he barely eats, barely drinks, barely _exists_ for a while. The fact that Bucky’s here is testimony to his will, but Steve’s not sure how close he is to being overwhelmed.

 

“No, I just.” Bucky pauses, takes a sip of his drink, looks like he wants to be anywhere else. “Wanted to tell you. Not to worry, if I don’t get back to you for a couple of days.” He keeps his voice low, keeps himself pressed back against the back of the chair, but he keeps his foot pressed against Steve’s, so Steve counts that as a win. “I need to just- _Not_. For a few days.”

 

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Steve says quietly, sitting back when it’s obvious Bucky isn’t going to lean forward. “Thank you for telling me, though. I would have worried.” He says it with a little smile, and Bucky smiles back slightly. Steve tries not to quote the therapist he saw all of once, pull a whole _everyone recovers differently_ thing, or _your health is most important here_. He’s sure Bucky wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, he just works his way through his bottle of water, comfortable with the silence between them, foot resting solid and warm against Bucky’s.

 

Even like that, the ten minutes goes quickly, so Steve pushes his way to his feet, bottle in one hand. “Text me when you’re ready,” He murmurs quietly, as Bucky startles a little at the movement before smiling up at Steve.

 

“I will.” Bucky reaches a hand out, catches Steve’s, and brings it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the pads of Steve’s fingers, even though they probably smell like stale coffee, and smiles against his skin, and the contact makes Steve feel better about leaving him there. He lets go after a moment, limits of physical contact evidently reached, so Steve just blows him a kiss, and walks back to the counter chased by the sound of Bucky’s surprised laughter.

 

 

 

When Bucky does get back in contact, a few days later, it’s with a rather abrupt, _you should come over_ blinking at Steve from his phone screen. He finishes locking up the shop with one hand, unlocks his phone, and replies before he can think better of it.

 

**_Steve:_ ** _What’s the address again?_

 

Bucky responds almost immediately, with a location not far from the shop, and Steve shakes his head at himself, before heading in the opposite direction to his own apartment. He knows he probably smells nasty, like heat and sweat and coffee, but he’s missed Bucky, missed their banter over text, missed the weight of Bucky’s fingers linked with his own. He’s a _sap_ and he knows it.

 

**_Steve:_ ** _Be there soon, can I use your shower?_

**_Bucky:_ ** _as long as u don’t make the bathroom smell like coffee_

**_Bucky:_ ** _nat would kill me_

**_Bucky:_ ** _she’s out btw u don’t have to hide from her or anythn_

 

Steve rolls his eyes, tucks his phone in his pocket, and walks a little faster. He’s not _scared_ of Nat, but he’d only met her once, at the housewarming ‘party’ that had ended up being just a few people with takeout crashed out in the lounge. She’d been exactly as he’d expected the first time he’d got a strange text from an unknown number, just a _I’m a friend of Sam’s, you can put me in your contacts as_ Natasha.

 

It takes him a few passes to find the place, purely because he hadn’t been looking closely enough. The brownstones lining the street were all fairly similar, and he hadn’t been watching when Sam had led the way here a month before. Some have people sitting on the front steps, and Steve goes redder every time he walks past them, until he spots the worn number 15 on one closed door.

 

He bounds up the steps, eager to get away from the eyes he’s probably only imagining are on him, but after he knocks there’s initially no response. He’s about to knock again, when there’s the thundering of feet running down stairs, and the door gets tugged open under his hand.

 

“You don’t check your phone, do you?” Bucky says in lieu of a greeting, and Steve fumbles for his phone, turns on the screen to see the beginnings of a message from Bucky, reading _I’m upstairs txt me when u ge-_

 

“Oops,” Steve says, and Bucky rolls his eyes, stepping back to let Steve enter. The room the front door opens into is small, but cozy, and he looks around as Bucky closes the door behind him. He’s about to say something when Bucky plasters himself against his back, hands landing on Steve’s hips.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky murmurs, before resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging for so long.”

 

Steve covers Bucky’s hands with his own, leans back a little. “It happens, don’t worry about it.” He understands, he really does. He’s not holding anything against Bucky for needing space. “Missed you though.” He winces as soon as he says it, not wanting Bucky to feel like he’s done something wrong by keeping to himself, but Bucky just laughs.

 

“I can tell. You smell like you ran here from the shop.” Bucky’s fingers go tight on his hips for a moment, then Bucky’s pulling away. “C’mon, shower’s upstairs. I’m sure you can fit something of mine.” Before Bucky can pull away too far, Steve turns to face him, catches his hands to draw him back in.

 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, voice low, and Bucky smiles and tilts his head.

 

“’Course,” Bucky murmurs, lifts up on his toes as Steve drops his head. It’s slow, gentle, and Steve’s hands tighten on Bucky’s lightly before he pulls back.

 

“Okay, show me where I can stop smelling like burnt coffee,” He says, and Bucky laughs. “Please?” He adds when Bucky doesn’t move, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

 

He gets a brief look around the house as Bucky leads him to the next floor, and through it to the back. It’s cozy, and tastefully decorated, to the point where Steve has to wonder whether Nat had someone come in and do it for her. A painting catches his eye, a simple street view, done with such care that Steve can’t help but stop to look. Bucky pauses when he realises Steve isn’t directly behind him, backtracks until he’s standing at Steve’s side. Steve glances over, smiles, and nods at the painting. “It’s gorgeous,” he says, and Bucky smiles, responds in the same quiet tone.

 

“Nat knows the artist, she was more than willing to make something for this place.” It takes a moment, but eventually when Bucky tugs on Steve’s hand, Steve follows.

 

Bucky pushes open a door, but doesn’t enter, saying “Bathroom. Towels are in the cupboard next to the shower, there’s extra soap under the sink if you need it.” He smiles, leans in and kisses Steve, and Steve can’t help the little sigh of content as their lips touch. Bucky notices it, by the grin on his face. “My room’s the door on the end, to the left. Come find me when you’re done,” He smiles, backs away, and heads down the hall. Steve stares after him for a second with what is probably a sappy grin on his face, before heading into the bathroom.

 

The first thing he notices are the folded clothes on the vanity, track pants and a shirt that looks like it’s only good for sleeping in. The second thing he notices is the sheer number of _things_ scattered around the basin. Everything from a razor to q-tips, heat rub to a suspicious looking box of band-aids balancing precariously on top of an unlabelled jar. Steve smiles to himself, amused by the clutter, and grabs a towel from the cupboard Bucky had mentioned before turning on the shower.

 

He’s quick about it, he usually is, rinsing his hair instead of washing it, only soaping the important bits before scrubbing at his hands. Coffee’s a surprisingly sticky smell, when you’re handling grind all day. Steve both hates and loves it, if he’s honest. He rinses up quick, gets out, and is surprised when the clothes Bucky set out actually fit. The pants are a little short in the legs, and if he lifts his arms he shows off a bit of skin, but beyond that, they fit remarkably well. He bundles his dirty clothes up, crams them in his duffel, and heads back down the hall after draping the wet towel over the towel rail by the door.

 

Before going into Bucky’s room he knocks, and waits for a muffled “C’mon in,” before opening the door.

 

And then he stops in the doorway, staring.

 

It’s.

 

Not what he’d expected. It’s a big room, in all honesty, almost an entire wall full of windows, most of them open, and the view is pretty decent, if you like looking out over a bunch of back yards. What has his attention though, is a little bit closer than the distant greenery.

 

There are a handful of little hanging baskets down one side of the room, trailing plants hanging out of them, some nearly grazing the floor in their eagerness. A row of what look like small herb bushes sit along the windowsill, competing with small flowers for space in the sun. In front of the window sits a large desk, with yet more plants on top, bright splashes of colour vying for attention arranged around a strangely empty space, and some interesting looking tools that, when Steve things about it, are probably for the plants in some way.

 

The air is hot, heavy. It wraps around him, and he has to just take a moment to breathe, trying to get used to it. It’s not _bad_ , he rationalises, as his breathing evens out, as he doesn’t have to concentrate on the dragging weight of the air in his throat. Just _different_ from the hallway.

 

He turns his head as he walks further into the room, sees the bed pushed against one wall, Bucky sitting in the corner with the laptop braced on one knee. He’s smiling a little, cautious as he watches Steve, and Steve realises the immensity of Bucky inviting him here.

 

Setting his bag down carefully, Steve crosses to the bed, and when Bucky holds out a hand, he takes it, presses a kiss to the palm before crawling onto the bed to sit kneel beside Bucky. “It’s gorgeous Buck,” he says, insistent, and Bucky’s smile grows. “Is this why you always smell amazing?” he teases lightly, and Bucky snorts, leans his shoulder against Steve’s and pushes the laptop out of the way.

 

“I always smell amazing?” He drawls, and Steve flushes, but doesn’t deny it.

 

“You know you do.”

 

“I like hearing it,” Bucky snorts, and Steve shifts to sit, knees knocking against Bucky’s. “Yeah, a lot of them I use to make things,” he says with a little shrug, then takes a deep breath, like he’s got something important to say. Steve looks at him, face serious, and Bucky rushes out “It’spartofbeingagreenwitch.”

 

Steve blinked, trying to dissect the garble of noises into distinct words, and when he managed, he still came up blank. “Witch?” He asked after a second, trying to work out what Bucky meant.

 

“Yeah.” Bucky looks down, and Steve frowns, not liking the uncertainty on Bucky’s face.

 

“Hey. Tell me?”

 

Bucky takes a breath, then another, and looks up at Steve, tucking his knees up to rest his arms on. “When I got back, I was in a bad place, like, really bad. I was trawling the internet and stumbled on this forum, and it all seemed sort of bullshit y’know? Spells and magic and shit.” He shrugged a little, and Steve couldn’t resist, reaching out and rubbing a hand over Bucky’s shoulder, silently encouraging him to keep going.

 

“But then I started reading, and it had all these different types, and some seemed more …. Unreal than others. But there was this one part I kept coming back to. There’s this subset that uses herbs, plants, cooking, all that, as a way to… create an outcome? Like there’s basic herb remedies, this plant helps with that ailment and whatever. Botany, herbalism, whatever. But when you add intent to it, will, power, it becomes more.” Bucky bites his lip, then holds out his right arm, displaying one of the tattoos near his wrist, Steve can’t help but reach out, trace the curves of it with a finger.

 

“Like this, it’s just an image, but when you put power into it, _will_ it to do something, that’s where, well, the magic happens.” Steve snorts at that, and he runs his fingers up to Bucky’s elbow.

 

“Of course you had to take that opportunity,” Steve says with a laugh, and Bucky grins up at him.

 

“Well, yeah,” Bucky responds, but he looks relaxed again, like he’s said what he needs to.

 

“Does it help?” Steve asks after a moment of just looking, just taking Bucky in. It wasn’t what he’d expected, not in the slightest, and honestly he knows he’ll have to take time to really let it sink in. Bucky’s a witch. Bucky casts spells, Bucky does magic, and it’s _not_ bullshit like Steve’s always been told. He knows though, in the back of his mind, that Bucky will have to throw a lot more at him to make him leave. It’s just as though Bucky had confided his religion, or his political standing, he reasons with himself. Just another layer of _Bucky_ , shaping the man, but not defining him.

 

And, more importantly, it obviously makes Bucky happy.

 

“Yeah, it does” is the immediate response, soft but unwavering. Steve smiles immediately. If it helps, there’s no way it can be a bad thing.

 

“Then I’m glad you found it.”

 

Steve’s surprised when Bucky’s arms wrap around him, pulling him in tight. “Thank you,” Bucky mumbles, forehead against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve frowns a little in confusion. “For understanding,” Bucky continues, and Steve hugs him back, just as tight.

 

“Thank you for telling me,” Steve responds, knowing how big a leap of trust it was for Bucky to do so.

 

“Isn’t it something you’re supposed to share with your boyfriend?” Bucky says, and Steve’s breath catches at the word. It’s not that he doesn’t think they’re dating, but they’d danced around the term since the first night, in a strange middle-ground of not knowing what to call their relationship, not wanting to label it _just in case_. “I prefer cats, I’m a witch, I don’t like sushi?”

 

Steve doesn’t respond at first, too caught on the word _boyfriend_ to think about saying anything else. Bucky seems to realise this, and rolls his eyes, leaning back to punch Steve’s shoulder lightly. “Oh my god Steve, what did you think we were?”

 

Steve shrugs, grin not disappearing in the slightest. “I dunno. _Boyfriend_ ,” He says, and Bucky gives him a light shove, and Steve lets himself fall backwards, landing in a pile of pillows. Then Bucky’s straddling his knees, and leaning over him.

 

“You’re not seeing anyone else?”

 

“What? No!” Steve says immediately, worried that he’d somehow given Bucky that idea.

 

“What do you call our going out, when you think about it?” Bucky continues, completely unfazed.

 

“Dates?”

 

“Then we’re dating, asshole,” Bucky finishes, dropping down to his elbows, low enough to say the words against Steve’s lips. “Boyfriends, even.”

 

“Good,” Steve says, and kisses him.

 

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, Bucky’s lips soft against his own, until Steve parts his, flicks his tongue against Bucky’s lower lip. Then Bucky’s chest presses down against him, and Steve gasps low and soft. Growing in stubble scrapes across the skin of his cheek, his lips, his chin, and he knows it’ll be red all too soon, knows it’ll be obvious what they’ve been up to.

 

He lifts his hands, tangles them in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky makes an approving noise against his lips. He tugs, firm, and Bucky gasps, his hips grinding down against Steve’s. Bucky’s getting hard, that’s not a surprise, but the thrill of want that runs through Steve is. He wants Bucky over him, in him, wants to be vulnerable with this man, like Bucky’s let himself be.

 

“Please,” he mumbles into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky pulls his head back, looks down at him. “I want you to. If you want.” He’s babbling, he knows he is, but Bucky’s hand cupping his cheek makes him smile, settles his mind enough to say “I want you in me.”

 

The noise Bucky makes is one that Steve wants to hear him make, over and over. He lifts his hips just a little, and the hand on his cheek drops to his chest, pushing down a little in warning. “I want to, _god_ , but at my pace. You’re mine right now, and I wanna take it slow.”

 

Steve? Steve’s _so_ on board with that. He nods, and Bucky kisses him as a reward, lips brushing over Steve’s lightly, before they start working their way down his throat. Steve tips his head back, sighs softly, and tightens his fingers in Bucky’s hair. Bucky lets out a noise, soft, and nips the skin under his lips.

 

There’s no more talking, not anymore, as Bucky works his way down, presses a kiss to the exposed line of Steve’s collarbone before his hands start to pull at the shirt. Steve helps as best he can, not moving his hands until he has to, but lifting his body so Bucky can pull the material free.

 

For a moment, Bucky leaves the shirt tangled around Steve’s hands, pins them to the pillow above Steve’s head and grins, wicked and wanting. Then he’s tugging the shirt off and away, tossing it somewhere Steve can’t see. Bucky keeps Steve’s hands where they are, pinned to the pillows, and kisses him again, and there’s more to this one than the last. It’s heavy, lips sliding slick against lips, and Steve whines under his breath.

 

Bucky pulls back when they’re both breathing hard, eyes amused as he looks down at Steve. “Why,” Steve asks, breath short, face scrunched up in some semblance of annoyance he’s sure doesn’t look convincing. “Do you keep stopping?”

 

“The look on your face whenever I do,” Bucky responds with a laugh. “You want it bad,” he adds, and his voice is dropping low. It’s not a question. Steve nods anyway. Bucky sits up a little, pulls his shirt off, and it follows Steve’s, before he settles back into place.

 

“Can’t blame me,” Steve says. It’s more of a whine. He ignores it.

 

Bucky doesn’t respond, instead running his hands down Steve’s chest, fingers catching on near-invisible scars. He cups Steve’s chest, fingers digging into the muscle, and Steve hums quietly, arches his back up into the touch. Bucky grins, runs his nails over the skin. Then he lets go of Steve’s hands to rub his metal thumb over one nipple, circling it gently. That has Steve twitching, gasping softly, and Bucky kisses his chin. “Sensitive?”

 

“ _God_ ” Steve mumbles, and he’s lucky that Bucky takes that for the yes it was. Bucky shifts down a little, replaces his hand with his mouth, and Steve can’t help but grab onto his shoulders as a warm tongue flicks across the nub, then there’s heat and wet and the sharp touch of teeth, and Steve moans softly.

 

Then it’s gone, Bucky’s mouth moving down his stomach, red marks from coarse hair left behind, and Steve lets his hands drop to his sides, grips the coverlet. There’s the soft kiss of teeth against his hip, and Steve forces his eyes to stay open, wide and dark as Bucky nibbles along the ridge of his hip bone. “You’re so pretty,” Bucky purrs, and Steve can’t help the shiver that runs through him. “A goddamned dream. Shit, when I first saw you, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

 

Bucky’s rambling, of course he is, but the nip he gives Steve’s hip keeps Steve quiet, and the protest dies in his throat as Bucky pulls the sweatpants down his hips. They’re left barely covering anything, and yet Bucky still murmurs “Can I?” with a look up at Steve. Steve’s not sure how he’s supposed to resist that.

 

He nods, and Bucky pulls his pants down to his thighs, eyes still on Steve’s face. Then he glances down, raises an eyebrow at Steve’s cock, already hard. “Eager,” he murmurs, grinning, and Steve pushes at Bucky’s head lightly. “Just from my mouth on you?”

 

Steve nods slightly, face red, and Bucky grins wider, dips his head, speaks with his lips just above Steve’s cock. “You’re gonna like what’s next then.” He dips his head, and just before Steve can beg, licks a line up the underside of Steve’s cock. He nuzzles his lips against the head, and Steve can feel the faint brush of Bucky’s stubble against his sensitive skin. Steve whimpers, can’t help himself, and hears Bucky laugh. There’s the light press of lips against the very tip of his cock, then nothing, and he makes an indignant noise, pushing up to his elbows.

 

Just as he does, Bucky shifts, shoves his legs apart, and shock has Steve moving pliantly under his hands. Bucky settles between them, and lowers his head. The warm puff of air against his cock has Steve twitching, but it doesn’t pause, lowers down past his balls as Bucky pushes at his legs again. Then there’s hands, heavy on his ass, spreading him open, and Steve lets himself drop flat to the bed, a soft _oh_ parting his lips.

 

No one’s done this for him in a long time.

 

There’s a moment where nothing happens, there’s just cool air on his ass and the weight of Bucky’s gaze, then the tip of Bucky’s tongue drags from his tailbone up to his balls. Steve gasps, eyes screwing shut, but that almost makes it worse, sensations amplifying in the dark as Bucky trails his tongue back down.

 

He licks, small and light, over Steve’s rim, and Steve can’t help but jerk his hips up, demanding silently. Bucky pushes him back down with a hand firm on his stomach, and Steve feels the slight pinch of the joints of Bucky’s metal hand as Bucky pushes Steve’s leg up higher.  Bucky’s nose touches his perineum, then presses lightly as Bucky tips his head. There’s no tongue, not this time, but the scrape of stubble over Steve’s cheeks, over his hole, makes Steve whine.

 

Bucky gives in, finally, and licks again, tongue flat. Over Steve’s hole, before back down with the tip. Long, easy strokes, until Steve can feel himself relaxing. Bucky’s left hand shifts to Steve’s ass, pinching the sensitive skin, and pulling Steve wide, holding him there as Bucky settles in.

 

Then Steve’s not thinking much. There’s the warm wet of Bucky’s tongue, pressing against his ass, into him, flicking back and forward as Steve rocks his head back. Bucky’s not holding his hips as tightly, letting Steve rock back against his mouth, and Steve gasps, whimpers, _moans_ Bucky’s name as Bucky goes deeper.

 

It’s too soon when Bucky pulls back with a last curl of his tongue, tugging at the rim of Steve’s hole, and Steve trembles, mumbles wordlessly in protest. Bucky shushes him gently, runs his hand up Steve’s stomach, and Steve opens his eyes to see Bucky leaning over, looking for something. “Buck,” he manages, and Bucky pats his stomach again, gives him a reassuring little smile.

 

“I’m here,” he murmurs, and Steve grabs the covers again as Bucky finds what he’s looking for, settles back between Steve’s legs with lube in his hand and a strip of condoms between his teeth.

 

It settles into Steve’s gut that _oh, this is really happening_ , and he smiles. He probably looks dopy as hell, he knows it, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. Rather, he grins back, silver wrapping glinting between his teeth, and drops the bottle in his hand to run his hands up Steve’s thighs. He leans forward, drops the strip on Steve’s stomach and says “What’re you grinning at?”

 

Steve shrugs. “You? This?” He says, and Bucky laughs, leans forward onto his knees for a kiss. His lips are still wet, there’s spit on his chin, in the hair there, but Steve doesn’t care, just tips his head up and opens his mouth on a sigh.

 

He doesn’t hear the click of the lube bottle, just spreads his legs a little wider when Bucky presses his knee to one thigh, and gasps into Bucky’s mouth at the cool touch of slick fingers against his ass.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles against his mouth, before kissing him again, rubbing his fingers back and forth until the lube warms up a little, and Steve relaxes. Then there’s pressure, and Steve’s whole body focuses on it, zeros in on the drag of skin on skin as Bucky presses his finger in. He makes a soft noise, wanting more, and Bucky gives it to him without Steve having to ask.

 

He slides his finger deeper, then out, smooth and gentle, until Steve’s wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, mumbling “More” against his lips. Then there’s two, then three. It feels like Bucky’s everywhere, surrounding him, and Steve loves it.

 

He’s drawn out of his head again by Bucky pulling back, pulling his fingers out, and pressing something into Steve’s hand. At Steve’s sound of confusion, Bucky kisses him again, soft and sweet, and says “I need you to do it.”

 

Before Steve can work out what he means, Bucky’s sitting back, and by the time Steve lifts his head Bucky’s pants are around his knees. He looks at his hand, at the condom packet in it, and finally catches up. “Why?” he asks after a brief pause, and Bucky looks up from where he’s pulling his jeans past his ankles, looking as undignified as one only can when taking off tight jeans.

 

“I haven’t mastered getting them on with one hand,” he deadpans, finally shaking his feet free before rolling to his knees. He leans over Steve, hands heavy by Steve’s shoulders, and adds, “But, more importantly, you know it’s on.” He brushes his nose over Steve’s lightly, and Steve is struck silent by the man.

 

“Sure that’s the reason,” Steve manages, and Bucky grins, nipping his lower lip sharply before licking over the small hurt.

 

“I’m offended,” he responds, and Steve lifts an arm, hand sliding warm down Bucky’s chest.

 

“Sit up?” Steve murmurs, fingers tight on the condom wrapper, and he nudges Bucky back. When the other man is upright, Steve sits up. A kiss, against Bucky’s shoulder, against the scars covering it, and Bucky shivers. A kiss, against Bucky’s neck, mouth open, lips soft, bringing a red mark to the surface before Steve moves on. A kiss, against Bucky’s jaw, hot and wet, as Steve opens the packet in his hands.

 

Bucky’s hands brace on Steve’s shoulders, and Steve smiles against his skin, pleased with himself as he reaches down, strokes Bucky’s cock slow and firm. Bucky whines, low, and Steve smiles wider, thumb rubbing over the head before touching latex to skin. Bucky holds still, but as soon as Steve’s hands are sliding back up his stomach he’s taking over again, pressure on Steve’s chest making him grin as he lies back.

 

Then, Bucky’s mouth is on his again, and he’s not grinning anymore. He gasps as Bucky’s hands slide down, careful, to his hips, and tug him forward. His hands fly to Bucky’s shoulders, grab on tight to metal and man as Bucky shifts himself closer. There’s blunt pressure, a mouth sliding down to his throat, and then.

 

And then.

 

And then Bucky’s hot and hard inside him, sliding in slow and steady. Steve’s head rocks back, and he gasps, rough and ragged. Sharp pressure against his throat as Bucky nips, the pinch of metal joints as Bucky grabs his knee, lifts it up. Steve’s warm and full, eyes screwing shut as he moans low. Bucky’s dusting kisses over his throat, across his cheeks, and Steve barely notices, focused on Bucky’s steady press into him. It’s tight, almost uncomfortable, and as soon as Bucky’s hips meet Steve’s he’s stilling, coaxing Steve into a kiss.

 

Bucky’s breath is warm against him as they part, and Bucky starts to speak, voice steady, wanting. “Feel so good Steve, god you feel so good, you take it so well….” He starts and Steve can’t help the little shimmy of his hips, the heat curling in the pit of his stomach as the stretch fades to something more comfortable.

 

Steve wiggles his hips again, then when Bucky doesn’t move, lifts them in a short roll, seeking more, deeper, and Bucky groans against his mouth. So, Steve does it again, and Bucky’s hands grab tight to his hips, careful but firm. He’s pinning Steve easy as anything, words falling from his lips as he draws back a little, rocks back in. “Greedy aren’t you? You got it all and still you want more,” he pants, and Steve’s breath hitches as the words send a thrill of heat through him.

 

There’s more, falling from Bucky’s mouth like water, rough words that Steve doesn’t hear, because Bucky’s tipping his hips, grinding in, and sending sparks dancing over his vision. “Again,” he gasps, and Bucky listens, drawing his hips back, before rocking them in.

 

It’s almost too much, sensation running rampant as Bucky focuses his thrusts, grinds against Steve’s prostate like he means business. Steve can barely catch his breath, the air between them even more humid than the room around them, but he urges Bucky on with his legs tight around Bucky’s waist, heel digging into the meat of Bucky’s ass whenever it feels like he’s about to ease up.

 

He’s rushing towards oblivion faster than he wants to, but he can’t bear to slow down. Doesn’t want Bucky to, as the other man leans down, catches Steve’s lips in a bruising kiss. He’s everywhere and Steve has this distinct feeling of losing himself in this, in this _man_ , and he doesn’t want to give it up.

 

As Steve’s stomach tightens, his skin gets sensitive, he moans Bucky’s name, gasps out a soft _ah!_ before managing “You’re gonna ma-ake me – _fuck_ – you’re gonna make me come,” and Bucky’s answering growl makes him moan again. Bucky drags his lips down Steve’s throat, breathes against his skin as his thrusts get harder.

 

“Know you want to,” Bucky’s murmuring, lips brushing Steve’s throat. “You’re gorgeous Steve, lemme see you come, wanna see you come all over yourself.” He reaches between them, palms Steve’s cock before gripping it. Then he’s stroking it, and Steve shudders under him. He’s caught, hips rocking in short little rolls, torn between rocking back into Bucky’s thrusts or up into his hand. He’s so caught up, mouth forming the words _more, please more_ without actually saying them, that he doesn’t realise where Bucky’s heading until it happens.

 

Cool metal presses against a nipple, then tugs, as Bucky’s teeth graze his jaw, and Steve’s whole body tenses up, before he lets out a whimper. His hips jerk, once, and he spills, comes hot and hard over Bucky’s hand, as Bucky urges him on with soft words. It feels like he’s falling into his own head, for a moment, every sensation too much, every touch, every twitch of his hips, but then Bucky’s hands are stroking down his sides, Bucky’s lips are on his, and he knows Bucky’s there to catch him.

 

 

 

Later that night, they’re still curled up on Bucky’s bed, Steve tucked in against Bucky’s front, playing with Bucky’s hair. “How did you get into this?” He mumbles against Bucky’s shoulder, not bothering to lift his head, but Bucky seems to understand what he meant. “Like, properly. Big jump from seeing a forum post to actually practicing witchcraft I’d think.”

 

“That one forum,” Bucky says as he runs a hand up Steve’s back, metal warm from their proximity. “I joined, got talking to this one witch, I think she lives in DC?” Bucky pauses to rub out a knot in Steve’s back, and Steve can’t help the soft moan that escapes as it finally loosens under the unforgiving pressure. “She was honestly amazing. Taught me all the basics, easy spells to start out with, how to build an altar, how to give things their power. My power. Whatever.”

 

Steve snorts softly, lifts his head to kiss Bucky’s chin immediately after to soothe any hurt felt. “She showed me the best sites, to find things and to network, and to _order_ things,” Bucky continues, as if Steve hadn’t done anything. Steve can see the small smile flirting at the edge of his lips though. “I woulda been lost without her.”

 

“She sounds brilliant,” Steve murmurs, and that makes Bucky laugh for some reason, but he gets a kiss right after so he doesn’t mind.

 

“She is, and she knows it. She’s constantly demanding we skype call, so, and I quote, ‘you can see how amazing I continue to be’.” Steve laughs at that, and Bucky just nods sagely.

 

“Does she work with plants like you?” Steve asks, curious, and Bucky shakes his head.

 

“Not really? Like enough to be able to help me get going, but she works more with sigils, and tarot.” Steve can’t help but tap the black lines on Bucky’s arm at that, and Bucky nods immediately. “Yeah, she helped me with those. Can’t get me anywhere near a tarot deck though,” he snorts, and Steve raises an eyebrow at that.

 

“Not that I don’t believe what she reads off them or anything, they just give me the creeps.” Bucky shudders overdramatically, and Steve shifts up a little until their heads are level, before kissing Bucky’s nose. “I don’t want to know what’s going to happen.”

 

Steve can understand that, really. Though, if he’d known Bucky was on his way into his life, he might have … he’s not entirely sure. Probably dressed nicer in the least. He says as much to Bucky, and gets an eye roll in response.

 

“I’m sure I would have liked the look of you even if you were wearing a tarp,” Bucky says, grinning, and Steve can’t help himself, he leans in to kiss Bucky again.

 

 

  

“What sort of job have you been looking for?” Steve asks curiously, sinking a little deeper into the plush chair. It’s an odd feeling, being on this side of the counter. Even in a shop that isn’t his.

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, looking up at Steve’s question, before sighing, shaking his head. They’ve covered the topic before, Bucky finding a place of his own, Bucky finding a job. It’s never been fruitful, but Steve lives in hope.

 

“Nothing.” Steve blinks at the suddenness of the response. Bucky had never been overly forthcoming about his life, and Steve could understand that. He’d never really gone into his past, or talked much about his family, instead avoiding the question, often in a way that meant Steve hadn’t noticed until much later. Bucky’s always at trying to be honest about his current life, even if his answers are sometimes short. This though, an outright shutdown, this was new.

 

“I meant-” Steve goes to clarify, sees the look on Bucky’s face, and stops, mouth snapping shut.

 

“I know what you meant, Steve,” Bucky responds, gentling his voice a little. “I’ve only been in the area and looking for a few months. And anyways, it’s hard enough for a disabled person to get work, let alone one who’s covered in ink. Even in this city.” He doesn’t make it sound like much, but he’s good at that. Saying important things as though they’re as trivial as asking what’s for dinner.

 

“But you’re not really di-” Steve starts to protest, not thinking about his words, but Bucky cuts him off fully this time, none of his gentle tone left.

 

“The arm I left in the desert says otherwise, Steve. I know it can be hard to remember, but this,” He lifts his left hand, drops it to the table. The fingers click against the wood. “This is a prosthetic, and it’s one I was damned lucky to get.”

 

Steve flinches a little, less at Bucky’s words, or his tone, but at himself, at his own stupidity. Bucky’s right, like usual. It’s hard to remember that his left arm isn’t actually the one he was born with. It’s so seamless, so fine tuned, it mimics the arm Bucky lost, and is so often covered by a glove that he forgets it’s there. Doesn’t make it any less a prosthetic.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologises immediately. “That was stupid of me.” He can feel his face heating up, and he looks up at Bucky again. “Are you ever gonna tell me what happened?” It’s not a request, or at least, he tries to make it sound like it isn’t. He’s not demanding Bucky tell him, or anything like that, knows it’s a sore spot by the way Bucky keeps shying away from any conversation around his time in. He won’t even say what he _did_ over there, and that’s something that’s almost common knowledge when someone knows a veteran.

 

“Steve…” Bucky starts, eyes soft but jaw set. Steve knows he’s not going to win whatever argument Bucky thinks they’re having, so he reaches out a hand, takes Bucky’s in his own.

 

“I’m not asking you to tell me _now,_ ” he clarifies, and the firm set of Bucky’s mouth relaxes, just a fraction. Steve shuffles forward on his chair, brings his other hand in, cups the prosthetic in both and kisses the back of it lightly. “It’s just. It’s not good to keep it all bottled up y’know? It won’t change my frankly far too high opinion of you.” He smiles, just a little, hoping he can draw one out of Bucky. “I just… you don’t deserve to be hurting.”

 

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and pulls his hand out of Steve’s grip. “You don’t know the half of it,” He says, and _god_ but the refusal cuts deep.

 

“Then help me understand,” Steve says, trying to keep his voice quiet. A coffee shop probably isn’t the best place for this conversation, but Steve had seen it coming, had _known_ they’d have to have it sometime. But Bucky’s not cooperating. Not letting him in.

 

“You, and your how many years of formal psychology training?” It’s not even said bitterly, that’s the worst part. It’s deadpan, snark Steve would appreciate almost any other time.

 

“It doesn’t take long to book an appointment,” Steve retorts, knowing it’s futile to even bring it up.

 

“No.”

 

“Bucky-”

 

“No.”

 

It’s surprising that Bucky doesn’t get up and leave, at that point, but he doesn’t. Just keeps looking as Steve digs himself further into the hole containing Bucky’s ire.

 

 _Shit_ , what is he doing? Bucky obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, or, doesn’t want to talk about it with _him_. Steve drops his head, scrubs at his face with both hands, then takes a deep breath, before looking back up at Bucky. “I’m sorry, that was. Out of line.”

 

“You’ve never been a between the lines person,” Bucky says after a second, voice losing some of its edge, and that’s when Steve knows he hasn’t completely fucked this, _them,_ up.

 

 

 

“I’m not sure what to do,” Steve mumbles, and Sam sets a heavy hand on his back.

 

“Steve, look. As a friend, I’ve gotta say, you have to get your own shit sorted before you can even think about convincing him to sort his.” Sam says after a moment of silence. “And I know you’re not okay either, don’t think I don’t. You’re just better at hiding it. You’re putting him ahead of your own wellbeing, and as a friend, I’m saying that can’t be healthy.”

 

Steve rests his elbows on the bench, lets his head hang, and makes a rough noise. If he’s honest with himself, he wants Bucky to be better more than he’s even considered getting _himself_ better. He’s got his own issues, his own shit, but it falls to the wayside when he considers what Bucky’s been through. His shit is, admittedly, better with Bucky around, but it’s not _great_. He still gets nightmares, still gets snappy, still has day long – _week_ long – lows that make even getting out of bed hard. He still counts exits in unfamiliar areas when he goes out, and the only reason he often sits with his back to any room now is so that Bucky doesn’t have to. He’s a mess, he knows he is, but. But.

 

It doesn’t matter as much as Bucky.

 

He knows he can’t say that to Sam – he’ll just get a worried look and an even more pointed reminder to _go book yourself a damned appointment Steven, Christ_.

 

Sam just gives him one of his probably patented looks, and sighs. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but if you want him to consider it, maybe think about showing him that it works.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, as Steve mulls it over, then Sam shrugs. “I’m not a damned counsellor, Rogers. Now help me clean out the cabinet for once so we can both get out of here faster.”

 

Steve does so, keeping his hands busy as his mind works. What if? It’s a pretty shitty reason to go, all in all, but in the end, it doesn’t matter _why_ he goes, only that he does. _Too deep_ , he tells himself, _I’m in too deep with this guy_. In the end though, he doesn’t care. He wants Bucky to be happy, to be healthy, whether or not it’s with him.

 

“You’re a genius Sam,” Steve says out of the blue, after silence had been nestled between them for a few minutes. “And a goddamned amazing friend.”

 

“I know,” Sam replies immediately, but there’s a glint of _knowing_ in his gaze.

 

 

 

Steve’s got a list of things he needs to get done before he next sees Bucky. It’s not a long list, not really, but he knows that if he wants to get everything done off it, he needs to move fast.

 

  1. _Find out how to get help._



 

At first glance, Steve thinks this is the easiest one. He’s both right, and wrong. There’s a wealth of information online, even more so for veterans. Almost too much. He sits on his bed, laptop in his lap, and clicks from site to site for _hours_ , finding everything from dead-end pages on the VA website, to professionals claiming to have better ‘cure rates’ than the VA themselves.

 

It takes him almost a half the night, but eventually he finds the location of the nearest clinic, the application forms he needs, and what he needs to fill them in. He prints off what he needs, his old desktop printer rattling to life and whirring away happily as he makes himself tea. He comes back as it’s finishing up, sipping at the hot liquid as he flicks through the pages to make sure the printer hasn’t eaten any this time. Everything’s there, which means it’s time for part two.

 

  1. _Actually apply, dumbass._



 

Steve stares at his post-it note with a little frown on his face, not appreciating his past self’s belief in his ability to go through with applying.

 

Then again, the blank forms are still sitting on his desk, so maybe past-Steve had been onto something.

 

Before even touching the pen, Steve goes through the checklist, mumbling under his breath as he digs through piles of crap to find the necessary forms. Enlistment records, discharge records, injury reports, deployments, they’re all crammed in folders and scattered towards the four corners of his apartment, so it takes him a good few hours to find them all.

 

It takes him longer to fill in the forms than it had to find those papers, meticulously entering each letter and number, checking each detail before he inks it in. Steve knows that if he screws it up, he’s not likely to print off another copy, so he needs to get it _right_.

 

He almost trips up when asked for his emergency contact, fingers tight on his pen as he turns the beginnings of an R into an M. Sam won’t mind, he reasons, and even if he does, it’s better that than naming someone who can’t do much from six feet under.

 

Once they’re done, neatly lined up and stapled together, he sends Sam a picture. The first text he gets from the man is just a row of exclamation points, followed almost immediately by a more eloquent reaction.

 

                **_Sam:_** _I’m proud of you Steve!_

                **_Sam:_** _If you put Bucky as your EC over me I’m locking you out of your own shop_

 

A quick picture evidently placates the other man, and Steve supplements it with a quick text.

 

                **_Steve:_** _Of course, you’re my best friend._

**_Steve:_ ** _Plus I think the commitment would spook him._

**_Sam:_ ** _you better be joking about the second bit boy_

 

Steve snorts, but doesn’t respond. There’s nothing more he can do towards his list until the morning, and he’s not due to open the shop, giving him plenty of time for the third and fourth points.

 

  1. _Hand the papers in._
  2. _Book an appointment._



 

He gets a text just as he’s crawling into bed that night, and when he checks, it’s from Bucky. It’s usually not a rare occurrence, texts from his boyfriend, but Bucky’s been quiet on that front for a few days. Part of Steve is worried, but the rest is telling him not to nanny the other man, to give him his space.

 

**_Bucky:_ ** _what time do u get off tmrrw?_

**_Steve:_ ** _Seven, want to do dinner?_

**_Bucky:_ ** _sure, I’ll meet u at 7_

 

The conversation ends abruptly, as it’s wont to with Bucky, but Steve can’t help but smile, because yeah, he might have something to share.

 

 

 

He doesn’t even get a chance.

 

Bucky shows up looking as stunning as ever, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders shrugged up to his ears. Steve’s locking up, but sees his reflection in the glass, hurries to finish and crams his keys in his pocket before holding out a hand in silent offering.

 

Bucky takes it, no hesitation, and smiles a little, but he looks worn down, tired. There are shadows under his eyes, a tight pull in the corner of his mouth. Steve pulls him in for a quick hug, presses a kiss to his forehead. “Hey,” he murmurs quietly, and Bucky smiles a little more, but the tightness in his eyes seems to double.

 

“Hey. There’s a Greek food truck nearby, I thought we could check it out?” Bucky offers, and Steve nods immediately, trusting Bucky’s judgement when it came to food, for the most part. There was one incident with olives and pineapples somewhere around their two month mark, but Bucky likes to pretend that hadn’t happened. Steve indulges it.

 

They walk in a comfortable silence. Steve doesn’t want to bring up his trip to the VA until Bucky’s eaten, not sure how the other man would take it. Bucky seems to be content with the lack of words, fingers linked with Steve’s, bumping against their thighs every few steps.

 

The souvlaki is delicious, warming Steve’s hands, reluctantly removed from Bucky’s, as well as his stomach, and he leans back on the grass once he’s licked the last of the tzatziki from his fingers. The small park they’re eating in is mostly covered with bark, but there are a few patches of green, and they’ve made one their own.

 

Steve waits until Bucky’s finished, but the other man’s taking his time, so Steve closes his eyes, hands linked under his head, feet crossed at the ankle. It’s peaceful, almost, but only until he hears Bucky speak.

 

“Steve, I gotta talk to you about something.”

 

Bucky sounds worried, enough that Steve’s eyes open of their own accord, and he pushes up onto his forearms to look at him properly.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

“Not really.”

 

Steve sits up fully, frowning as he holds out a hand, and Bucky doesn’t protest as Steve rests it on his knee.

 

“Talk to me, Buck. What’s going on?”

 

“I-” Bucky starts, then tries again. “You are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever had a chance to meet.” Steve blinks, leans forward a little. He can hear a _but_ in that sentence. “and, _fuck_ I know I’m half in love with you,” he continues, and _oh_.

 

Steve opens his mouth, to say what he doesn’t know but to say _something_ , when the other shoe drops.

 

“But.” There it is.

 

“But?” Steve repeats, and Bucky doesn’t look at him, just stares at his own hands.

 

“But I’m not getting any better. I know it’s worrying you, I can see it. And I can’t do that to you, not when I can see _you_ moving forward with your life.”

 

“Buck-” Steve tries to cut in, a heavy weight in his gut. No, this can’t, this _can’t_ be what it sounds like.

 

Bucky just speaks over him, like now that he’s started, he’s got to get to the end. “And it feels like the biggest copout to say it’s not you, it’s me, but that’s exactly what it is. It is me, I’m a mess, and I won’t, _can’t_ , bring you down with me. Because I know that’s exactly what’ll happen. You’re too noble, too self-sacrificing, to see when something is just going to hurt you, so, _shit_ , I gotta save you from me. I can’t even talk to you about this shit – I want to, god knows I want to open up to the one person I care about most, but I _can’t_ , and you don’t deserve that.”

 

“Are you…?” Steve’s stunned, completely and utterly speechless in the face of what Bucky’s saying, what Bucky’s _implying_. “Breaking up with me?”

 

“Yeah, Steve.”

 

Bucky’s jaw is set, but there’s a glint of wet on his cheek, and it makes Steve want to reach out, brush it away. Reassure Bucky that everything’s going to be okay. His hand gets halfway before he catches himself. Drops it. Bucky seems to curl into himself a little bit more when he does.

 

“Maybe when I get myself together, maybe when I can make it through a week without _something_ sending me back there, we can. I don’t know. Try again? If you still want to. But I’m not gonna string you along when it’s not fair on either of us.”

 

“I can help you, I can-” Steve starts, floundering, and Bucky just shakes his head, before finally looking at Steve. He looks distraught, like he’s having something ripped from him, and Steve, _fuck_ Steve feels the same way.

 

“I’ve gotta want to help myself.” It’s said with an air of finality, and Bucky’s voice only wavers right at the end. Steve has no idea how he’s doing it, how he’s keeping it together. It feels like the world is dropping out from under him. “And I need to reach that point by myself.”

 

Bucky pushes to his feet, and Steve doesn’t move, stays sitting in the grass, staring up at him. He’s not sure he’d keep his feet if he stood, so maybe it’s a good thing.

 

“Bucky.” It’s pathetic, and he knows it is, but he has to ask. Needs to know. “Can we still… talk? Be friends?”

 

That makes Bucky stop, like he hadn’t expected the question. Like he’d expected Steve to storm off in a huff, or just accept it and never see him again.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

It’s the last thing either of them says. There’s a moment of almost hesitation, like Bucky’s wanting to say something more, but then he shoves his hands in his pockets, ducks his head, and walks away.

 

Steve doesn’t move for a long time after that, not even as the tears on his face start to dry, and his throat hurts from resisting their fall.

 

 

 

 

Steve’s phone buzzes against the nightstand, but he ignores it, rolling from his back to his side. It keeps buzzing, a nagging alarm, so he pushes himself up, and stares at the end of his bed. He almost wishes the weekend had been a dream, but the weight in the pit of his stomach tells him it wasn’t. That it’s real.

 

That Bucky left him.

 

He knows he needs to get up, needs to put a smile on his face and go to work. Needs to pretend everything is fine, and that he’d been ignoring Sam’s texts all weekend for _normal_ reasons.

 

It’s only been six months, he tells himself. Six measly months since Bucky walked into his life. He shouldn’t be so worked up about it. Couples break up for far less, after far longer. He shouldn’t be so invested. He should have seen it coming.

 

Steve shakes the thoughts out of his head and pushes to his feet, before he grabs his phone. Along with the alarm, which he turns off, there are two new messages. Both from Sam.

 

**_Sam:_ ** _I can open if you need me to, but you gotta tell me_

**_Sam:_ ** _preferably not five minutes before opening_

 

Steve shakes his head slightly, more to himself than anything else, and finally responds, ignoring all of the other white text boxes above those two.

 

                **_Steve:_** _I’m good, come in at your normal time_.

 

He stands, puts his brave face on. Three hours to work out what to say to Sam.

 

 

 

In the end, he doesn’t have to say anything to Sam. One of his regulars, an older woman – Mira? Miranda? – leans over the counter as he makes her Americano, smiles at him, and asks “So, how’s that boyfriend of yours?”

 

Steve tenses, can’t help it, and looks at the cup in the machine. It’s nowhere near done. “What boyfriend?” he asks after a moment, trying to sound blithe about the whole thing.

 

“The young man with the long hair and the tattoos,” she continues, as if he was just being a little slow on the uptake. “That comes in all the time.”

 

“We’re not dating,” Steve says, putting the lid on her takeaway cup with an air of finality. “But I’m sure he’s just _peachy_.” Steve blinks, shocked at the vehemence in his voice, and bites his lip, before trying out a smile on the woman.

 

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up,” she apologises with a grace that surprises Steve. “Forget I brought it up. Have a lovely day, Steve.” She takes her cup, and Steve musters up a smile, which she returns.

 

“You too, ma’am,” he responds as she turns, leaves, and nearly walks into Sam.

 

There’s a flurry of apologising, but Sam’s eyes are on Steve, and Steve is refusing to look at him.

 

He keeps it up for all of ten minutes, before Sam’s bumping his hip against Steve’s and saying, “Buddy, tell me.”

 

That’s all he needed, really. Steve’s shoulders hunch forwards; he’s glad Sam’s picked a moment where there’s no one waiting for a drink, and everyone seated is out of earshot. “He- Bucky-” he takes a breath, tries again. “He said he loved me, or was on his way there, then broke up with me in the next breath.”

 

One of the best things about Sam in times like this is that he doesn’t ask questions. He just reaches a hand out, clasps Steve’s shoulders, and says, eloquently, “Shit.”

 

“He doesn’t. Think he’s good enough? He thinks he’s gonna hurt me, doesn’t think he’s getting any better – is _going_ to get any better. So-”

 

“-He left,” Sam finishes, squeezing Steve’s shoulder, and when Steve doesn’t react, he pulls. Steve goes in, caves into the comfort Sam’s offering, just for a moment. Sam hugs him, tight arms around his waist, then mutters, “That boy’s an idiot.”

 

“Sam-”

 

“It’s true.”

 

“ _Sam_.”

 

“Okay, okay. I’m comin’ over tonight. We’ll get way too much Chinese and watch David Attenborough while we eat it all and regret it immediately.” Sam’s voice is warm, affectionate even. The offer is more than just company, it’s about comfort, and Steve latches onto it with a nod.

 

“As long as you get your own dumplings this time, Wilson.”

 

Sam makes an affronted noise, which drags a chuckle out of Steve, then Steve’s pulling away, schooling his face back to neutral. “Alright, back to work.”

 

 

 

“Were you in love with him?” Sam asks out of the blue, sprawled across the arm of Steve’s big couch. He’s got a beer in one hand, swinging a little as he holds it by the neck, and chopsticks in the other. He bites into the dumpling he’s holding while he waits for Steve to respond.

 

Steve’s ….. not sure if he wants to answer the question. On the one hand, _not_ answering it is sort of answering it, with Sam. On the other hand, admitting it would be as pointless as shooting himself in the foot. There’s nothing it’ll achieve, and he’ll hurt more after it happens. He knows what the answer is, knew before the question was out of Sam’s mouth.

 

He goes with door number two. “Six months seems way too fast, but …. Yeah. I did. I do.”

 

“And he left you _because_ he wants to protect you?” It sounds almost noble, when put that way.

 

“That’s what he said.”

 

“Hold on.” Steve looks at Sam, brows pinched, but Sam’s not even looking at him. He’s discarded the chopsticks and is wriggling his phone out of his pocket, before he goes silent, typing something out.

 

“Nat thinks he’s being a coward,” Sam says after a moment of silence, and Steve shakes his head.

 

“She also says he didn’t want to do it. He just thinks he had to.” That makes Steve stop, sit up a little straighter.

 

“What are you saying, Sam?” Steve asks, slow, cautious. Sam’s had some crazy plans before now, and they’re currently at about a seventy percent success rate. Steve’s willing to listen, at least.

 

“I’m saying that he still wants you. And you’d be dumb as fuck to ignore that.”

 

“You’re saying I should, what, win him back? How the hell am I supposed to do that, when he left because of his _own_ issues?” Steve asks, sinking back into the couch. It sounded more exasperated than he’d meant, in all honesty, but Sam had almost gotten Steve’s hopes up. It was ridiculous.

 

“Then show him he can be better. Show him he can have his pasty-ass boyfriend, and he can get _better_. Show him he’s not alone.”

 

Steve frowns a little, mind racing. Maybe …. It’s possible. It took Sam’s pushing and Bucky’s presence for Steve himself to get anywhere with his own recovery, their presence in his life making him want to get better in the first place, so it’s possible, he reasons, that Bucky just needs something to prompt him to _try_. A reason to get better.

 

“I think,” He starts, shakes his head a little to clear it. “Friends, first. If he lets me get that far, I’ll ask, but I’m not gonna force myself on him if he truly doesn’t want me.”

 

Sam sits up, reaches over, claps Steve on the shoulder once, and says, “He’ll say yes. Now pass the Rangoon.”

 

 

 

The thought hangs heavy over Steve’s head once Sam leaves, and eventually he pulls out his phone, sinking back into the couch cushions. He stares at it for a moment, hesitating, then sends Nat a quick text.

 

                                **_Steve:_** _how’s he doing?_

 

The response is surprisingly quick, considering. Up until this very moment, Steve had been convinced that Nat would ignore him, stay on the side of the person she was closer to, even if, as Bucky had explained, they didn’t know each other all that well. She hadn’t texted him since that night, it wasn’t a completely stupid idea, he told himself, opening the messaging app again.

 

                                **_Natasha:_** _he’s an idiot but what else is new_

                                **_Natasha:_** _got him to leave his room today so that’s a good thing_

 

Steve can’t help the little stab of pain the thought gives him. Bucky was hurting, _is_ hurting. But he shakes it off. Concentrates on what he wants to say.

 

                                **_Steve:_** _If I give you something to give to him, will you make sure he gets it? You don’t have to force him to read it, just make sure he gets it?_

 

Steve bites his lip, worried she’s going to say no, but when a new message pops up from Nat he breathes a sigh of relief.

 

                                **_Natasha:_** _I can’t force him to do anything but I can get it to him._

                                **_Steve:_** _If you come by the store tomorrow I’ll have it for you. I don’t want to just show up at his house_

 

Steve puts his phone down carefully, the little click loud in the quiet room. He sits there for a moment more, then heaves out a sigh, and pushes to his feet. He makes it to his room, grabs a pad of paper, and places it on his bed. Sets a pen next to it. Then has to walk away, back to the kitchen.

 

Coffee machine on, water boiling. Stretching milk without thinking about it. As soon as his hands are busy, his mind settles, and he really, truly, starts to think about what he wants to say. It’s hard to consolidate everything. He doesn’t want to write pages and pages, doesn’t want Bucky to get part of the way through and give up. But he knows that there are things that he has to say.

 

It takes him most of the night, not that he’d admit. Piles of paper, because he insists on writing it by hand. There are ink stains on his fingers, smudged rings of coffee on his nightstand, but as soon as he signs off, just a simple _Steve_ , he folds the paper, sets it aside. He can’t bear to look at it, knows that if he rereads it, he’ll regret every word.

 

So instead, Steve stands, picks his way through the room, and heads out into the hall. He cleans up the kitchen, three coffee cups and a smattering of coffee grind on the bench. Checks all the switches, makes sure his little machine is ready to go for the next time it’s used, then crawls into bed, and does his best to forget the heavy words sitting on the bedside table.

 

 

 

A few days later, and Nat sends him a text while he’s working. He checks it on his break, can’t help but smile in quiet victory at the words.

 

                                **_Natasha:_** _He’s kept it. Can’t say if he’s read it, but he hasn’t thrown it out._

               

 

 

“So,” Dr. Gasser, says, trace of a French accent in the single word. “Tell me in your own words why you’re here, Steve.”

 

Internally, Steve wonders if this is a good idea. The man is looking at him with understanding, and the scar on his cheek is prominent even against his dark skin. That’s what convinces him, at least for the moment. There’s no pity in the doctor’s gaze, just a hint of empathy, and a willingness to listen. So Steve speaks.

 

“I was in the army for nine years. Active, deployed for a lot of it. Initially, it was because I was just another grunt, then it was because they needed the experience. Since I’ve been back …” He shakes his head, just a little, takes a deep breath. He’s got to say it, he knows he does. He’s got to lay his cards on the table, otherwise he’s not going to get _better_.

 

He doesn’t say everything, _can’t_ say everything. Tells the man, _call me Olivier_ , about his shop, about Sam. About Bucky. He mentions the nightmares, briefly. Mentions the panics, the crushing weight of seemingly small things. The drowsiness, the inability to _move_ at times. Watches the doctor take notes at certain moments, tries not to think too much about what he’s writing.

 

He mentions the things Sam had told him, the need to put others first, the need to _please_ others first, and Olivier stops him, for just a moment. Pulls him back a step, works to understand. That’s the difference, Steve thinks, between this guy and the lady he’d seen right back when he’d first been discharged. Olivier makes a note, then shifts in his seat. The usual therapy-type questions, “Where do you think that came from? Why, looking at it now, do you think this is so important to you?” Gasser’s focus on it makes Steve realise, dimly, that maybe, just maybe, it’s not such a healthy reaction to people. Maybe this universal responsibility, this _saviour complex_ , Gasser had called it, wasn’t actually helping anyone.

 

Towards the end of the session, the end of the strangest hour of Steve’s life, Olivier starts to talk. At first he’s just repeating key things back to Steve, so he stays silent, just nods a little more firmly than necessary when it seems like Olivier is waiting for a response.

 

Then comes the bit that Steve’s heard about, read about, from first therapy sessions. It just doesn’t happen the way Steve expects.

 

“Thank you for talking to me,” Olivier starts, face serious. He leans forward a little in his chair, and Steve subconsciously sinks back a little in his. It’s too soft, and he sinks right into the cushioning. “I agree with you in that there’s definitely something under the surface with what you’re experiencing, but it may be more than just the traumatic stress you mentioned you were reading up on. I think what we’re doing here would be a good start for you,” he continues, and Steve can’t help but relax at the gentle comfort in his tone. He’s _good_ , Steve thinks, a little surprised by the thought. He’s _really_ good at this.

 

Steve leaves the office with a couple of pamphlets clutched in his hand, and he stops just outside the door. People rush past him, a few feet away on the sidewalk, but he stares at the word on the top one. He’d never really considered that there was something more to what he was feeling than just what happened _there_ , but the sharp white word on its deep blue background was almost condemning in its obviousness.

 

He crams the booklets into his pocket, folded haphazardly so they don’t stick out too much, and texts Sam.

                                 ** _Steve:_** _I’m going back next week._

 

               

 

After Nat’s text, Steve writes to Bucky more. It’s not every night, but a few times a week, writes to him like he wishes he could speak to him. Reminds him that he’s not alone. Tells him about the shop. Tells him the things that happened in his therapy sessions, a not-so-subtle reminder that Steve’s _trying_ , and that there is something Bucky can do.

 

He knows Natasha doesn’t read the letters, knows by the way she looks at him, curious, but not pitying, whenever she comes past to collect one.

 

“He hasn’t thrown any of them out yet,” She confirms again, the sixth time he hands one over, cool pressed envelope with his messy scrawl on the front. “I have no idea if he’s reading them, but he’s not throwing them away.”

 

It makes Steve hope, somewhere in the back of his mind, that maybe Bucky will tell him that to his face sometime soon.

 

The next letter he writes, he doesn’t text Nat about. Just drops past the cozy brownstone after his shift, slides it in the mail slot like it belongs. It’s heavier this time, more than just paper inside the envelope, and he hopes he’s not pushing it too far.

 

 

 

                **_Natasha:_** _what was in the wrapper?_

 

The question comes within a few hours of his stopping by, and he pretends he hasn’t been itching for any sort of response ever since.

 

                **_Steve:_** _chocolate almonds. He mentioned he liked them a few times._

 

Natasha doesn’t reply for nearly half an hour, and Steve worries. _God_ does he worry. The soft buzz of his phone has him almost lunging at the table, needing confirmation one way or the other, but Nat’s response almost startles a laugh out of him.

 

                **_Natasha:_** _the asshole didn’t share any with me :(_

_**Natasha:** I told him off and he just gave me that look, you know the one_

 

Steve does know the look, knows it intimately. Can remember exactly how the pinch between Bucky’s eyebrows feels under his thumb, remembers exactly what it took to kiss away the little pout. He lets himself remember, but tries not to dwell on it.

 

                **_Steve:_** _yeah, I know the one._

**_Steve:_ ** _it wasn’t too much then?_

**_Natasha:_ ** _they lasted like 2minutes I don’t think it was._

 

Steve spends the rest of the evening with a smile on his face. Even if Bucky isn’t reading what Steve has to say, he’s at least seemingly open to them being friends again.

 

Friends, Steve tells himself. He can do _friends_.

 

 

 

Steve can’t help but mention his sessions with Dr. Gasser, in his letters to Bucky. _I’m not bringing this up to make you feel guilty,_ he writes in one, words a rough scrawl. _I just know you’ll at least appreciate that I’m trying to get better, and maybe show that it’s not so scary after all_. Plus, he thinks, but doesn’t write, pen poised over paper, it’s impossible not to tell Bucky this sort of thing. He spent six months telling the guy about his day-to-day, it’s kind of hard to stop when Bucky hasn’t outright told him to stop contacting him.

 

They’re in a sort of in-between, Steve’s come to realise. Bucky doesn’t want him gone, didn’t want him gone in the first place, and while he’s not reaching back, according to Nat he’s not tossing the letters out as soon as he gets them. It’s a one-sided conversation, at the moment, and Steve knows that if there’s any hint of Bucky not wanting to get these letters he’ll stop immediately, but.

 

It’s almost cathartic, writing to Bucky.

 

Steve finishes up what he wants to say, signs it with a boring old _Steve_ , and folds the paper into thirds. There’s a bag sitting by the small stack of envelopes, and he digs through it, pulling out a little bag of seeds. He’s not sure if this will be too much, not sure if _this_ will be the reason Bucky turns away and shuts him out fully, but _god_ he hopes not.

 

They’re lemon balm, and they’re honestly probably something Bucky already has, but to Steve it’s more of an _I saw this and thought of you, and thought you’d like it_ thing than a _I thought you’d need this_ thing. He hopes it comes across that way. Grabbing his pen, he scrawls a quick note to that effect on the label of the bag, then tucks the letter into an envelope, before taping the seed bag to the back.

 

A few hours after he drops it off on his way to work, his phone starts to buzz against his thigh. It’s not a text, he knows that much, too long and insistent, but he’s got his hands wrapped around a milk jug, and frowns as the phone goes still halfway through pouring out the milk.

 

As soon as he passes off the coffee, he’s digging his phone out, waving to get Sam’s attention before holding his phone up and pointing to the back room. Sam waves him off, and he ducks out of sight of the customers.

 

He’s unlocking his phone when it buzzes again, short and sharp. He checks his call logs before checking the message that’s just come in.

 

                **_1 missed call:_** _Bucky_

 

Steve freezes, fingers tightening a little on the phone. If Bucky’s calling him out of the blue, it’s one of two things. Either he wants to talk, or something’s happened. Part of Steve is wondering which is more likely. Before he can hit redial, he gets another text. Steve, wonders if it’s a voicemail notification, hopes Bucky left him something to explain the reason he’s calling after nearly three months of radio silence.

 

It’s better.

 

                **_Bucky:_** _Before u freak out I thought it’d be easier to say this over the phone but I realised ur at work so ignore that_

_**Bucky:** so I’m doing it a slightly more awkward way so pls don’t reply until I’ve finished bc I’ll probably put my foot in my mouth or smthn on the way_

 

He gets another message, and this one is much, much longer. Steve reaches out blindly behind him, grabs onto the prep table, and leans against it as he reads.

 

                **_Bucky:_** _first of all I should say I wasn’t reading your letters, at first. Thinking about you hurt, even though it was my own fault you weren’t there anymore. I know I hurt you, and I didn’t mean for that to happen, tho I know I should have seen that there was no way to end things without hurting you. As much as it feels insincere considering I’m messaging you, I am sorry for that. So, so sorry, and I don’t know if you’ll believe me. But I am. The first letter was a surprise, and pretty soon I started to expect them in the mailbox, or sitting on my bed when I got home. (from work, a job u convinced me to apply for in the first place. Kooky little indie bookstore, only part time, but the manager let me in so it’s not all that bad). They just stacked up on my desk where I could look at them and feel guilty._

                **_Bucky:_** _but when u sent me the one with the chocolate, I had to look, I had to see what u were saying that meant u kept reaching out to me, even when I was being an outright ass. Even after I did what I did. I read them all that night, wanted to call u, but nat stopped me. Told me that it wasn’t gonna be any better second time around unless something changed._

 

Steve has to stop, take a breath, quell the hopeful little bubble that’s starting to lift in his chest. Bucky wants to talk to him, wanted to a long time ago, but even better than that, Bucky wants to get _better **.**_ Wants to try. His phone keeps buzzing, so he looks back down as more messages come through.

 

_**Bucky:** after u started talking abt going to therapy, I started looking. Reading at first, bc it was hard enough trying to work out what was going on in my head, let alone trying to explain it to a doc or something. So many fuckin words Steve, I’m sure u know what it’s like. So many different explanations, so many different ppl tryin to convince u that ur screwed up but “it’s okay it happens”_

_**Bucky:** I didn’t like that, tbh. It wasn’t okay, it isn’t okay, and I’m glad u and nat got me to pull my head outta my ass and do something about it. I’m waiting to hear back from them now, though I think I’d be low on the list. Military insurance and all. The form said I’d hear back from them in like 2 weeks or something, but knowing them, it’ll be longer. Same place u go to, I think. Had ur doc’s name on the door anyway._

_**Bucky:** shit I’m rambling. Uh. What I wanted to say was, if u wanted, if u still cared, u could maybe come over? Just to talk? There are things I need to say to u and I don’t want to say them this way in case it comes out wrong_

_**Bucky:** and, shit. I miss u._

 

The influx of messages stops there, and Steve’s left staring at his phone, heart in his throat. He knows he’s running way overtime on his break, knows Sam needs him out there, but this? This is probably one of the most important decisions he’ll make this month, maybe this year, and he doesn’t want to fuck it up. Bucky’s opening up, just a little, and maybe it’s the fact that Steve had been so transparent in his letters, he’s not sure, but he’ll take whatever he can get. Bucky’s trying to trust him, at least, and he’ll be fucked if he doesn’t accept the gift he’s been given.

 

He hits call.

 

 

 

After his shift, Sam shoos him out the door with a stern “Go get him,” and a smile. Steve can’t help the hopeful little curve of his lips, and Sam shoves at his shoulder, calls him a sap. Steve just shrugs, then heads for Bucky’s.

 

The call had been awkward, to say the least. Steve had realised as soon as Bucky had answered that he probably should have just replied by text, but it had been too late. The breathless _hi_ ’s between them had devolved into silence, before Steve had blurted out, “I miss you too.”

 

Eventually, they’d managed to hash out a meeting plan, Bucky insisting he was okay to have Steve come over, Steve suggesting more neutral places, but in the end, he’d agreed with Bucky. If that’s where Bucky felt safe enough to say what he needed to say, Steve’s not going to protest it.

 

He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches the little brownstone, bounds up the stairs and knocks far too loudly. The door is pulled open immediately, and. Bucky’s there.

 

They stare at each other for a moment, quiet, both of them waiting for something, and neither knowing what, until Steve breathes out “Hi,” and Bucky gets that smile on his face, the one that outshines everything Steve’s ever seen.

 

Bucky walks backwards a little, lets Steve in, and they hover awkwardly in the hall before Steve can’t help it, gets out “I missed you.” A repeat of earlier.

 

Bucky’s body hits his a second later, firm and warm as Bucky wraps his arms tight around Steve’s shoulders. He’s trembling, just a little, and Steve gets with the plan quick as anything, wraps him up and holds him tight. His metal fingers pinch a little, but Steve ignores it, ignores the hard press of metal against his shoulders.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says in a small voice, face against Steve’s shoulder. “I hurt you and I was stupid and I’m sorry.” Steve doesn’t say anything, just holds Bucky as long as he needs it.

 

After a minute, Bucky pulls back, face turned down, and mumbles “Do you want something to drink? Tea? We don’t have any coffee at the moment, Nat’s at the store now, so…”

 

Steve smiles a little, fond, and says “Whatever you’re having is fine, Buck.”

 

Bucky makes them tea, in little china cups Steve had never seen before, and sets them on the coffee table before folding himself into the corner of a big couch like he’s done it a million times. Steve sits a little more hesitantly, at the other end of the same sofa. After a few seconds, Bucky pushes a foot out, until his toes are brushing Steve’s leg. It’s familiar, and makes Steve relax a little more, smile just a little at Bucky.

 

Bucky takes a gulp of his drink, making Steve wince in sympathy, then takes a deep breath, and starts to speak.

 

“I am really, honestly, so fucking sorry for everything I put you through, Steve.” He holds up a finger as Steve opens his mouth to protest, and talks over him. “I fucked up, like I said. I was scared, I was stupid, and frankly I still am, but I’m trying. I’m not one hundred percent better, I don’t think I’ll ever be anywhere near ‘okay’.” He stops, takes a deep breath, lets it out nice and slow. It’s focused, unnatural, and reminds Steve that he should probably let out the breath he’s holding.

 

“It’s going to be a hell of a long haul, but I think - I _know_ I wanna do it with you.”

 

Steve’s speaking before his brain has a chance to catch up, as he shifts a little closer on the couch. Bucky’s leg folds up, then curls around him, but he makes himself ignore it. “Anything you need Buck. I’m your friend, and I care about you. I’ll be with you as long as you want me there. Every step of the way.”

 

He wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulls him in for a quick hug, and Bucky goes easily, stays quiet for a few seconds. Then Bucky is pulling his head back, speaking with his face less than an inch from Steve’s.

 

“I don’t want you there as just my friend Steve. I know I hurt you, and I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I know we won’t have what we had before I did all of this but-”

 

Steve lifts a hand, forcibly stops Bucky from speaking with a finger over his lips. Bucky just looks at him worriedly.

 

“Buck. Just-“ He takes a breath, lets it out as his lips curve into a smile. “Just shut up and kiss me, okay?”

 

Bucky does.

**Author's Note:**

> art by [@inediblesushi](http://inediblesushi.tumblr.com):
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> unofficial art [here](http://spacebuckk.tumblr.com/post/149121703647/so-in-like-march-before-id-decided-on-my-big) by [@kayaczek](http://kayaczek.tumblr.com) and [here](http://poetdameron.tumblr.com/post/149170309838/nectar-of-the-gods-and-witches-too-by) by [@poetdameron](http://poetdameron.tumblr.com) and [here](http://slaughterme-barnes.tumblr.com/post/149122533664/for-brickhousebuck-and-her-sbb-fic-nectar-of-the) and [here](http://slaughterme-barnes.tumblr.com/post/149659690639/unofficial-art-for-nectar-of-the-godsand) by [@slaughterme-barnes](http://slaughterme-barnes.tumblr.com)
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](http://brickhousebuck.tumblr.com/) for more witch!bucky fun


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